Of Gypsies and Thieves
by Velvet Nights and Satin Skies
Summary: A clumsy violinist is a contradiction in terms - yet somehow, Amelia James manages to be just that. When she finds herself in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, she has no idea she's about to be caught up in murder, adventure, and -gulp- romance. Clopin/OC
1. Introduction: Of Homework and VCR's

The pink eraser bounced rhythmically on the tabletop, one beat per second, counting down the moments until she was released from her room and allowed downstairs. There was a strict rule in her house – no music, no TV, no computer until every scrap of homework was finished. More often than not, her father came upstairs to help her, but today he was downstairs pecking away at the calculator, arranging long columns of numbers and emailing the results to people with long titles before their names and numbers after them. She sighed and rumpled her red hair then threw her pencil across the room. She kicked off her shoes and began pacing, taking care to avoid the creaky spots on the floor – marked carefully in permanent ink – so her parents would think she was still studying. Her carpet was a shag weave and rather scratchy to lay on for long periods of time, but it felt good on her toes as she thought. What she really wanted to do was grab her violin and run into the woods; she played for herself, and for the squirrels, who always paused their chattering politely while she played. But the weather was freezing cold, the steady thrum of rain hammering the roof and streaking down the windows in long, glassy rivulets. Outside, a downy gray sky was hinted with black, and the light was poor and hazy with fog and rain. Trees stretched their limbs, leaves flipping to show their silvery green sides, and thunder rolled distantly, accompanied by a twinge of light in the distance. Her sensibly short nails dug into her palms and she scowled deeper, glaring a hole in the floor. Pacing usually helped soothe her, but right now, she _needed_ to play her violin. It was as much a part of her day as breathing was – if she didn't play it, her fingers tingled, and her breath came short, and she was in the most horrible temper all day. Right now, she despised math, her parents, homework, but mostly math. She wanted to _play_.

As she paced, she passed in front of her full-length mirror. Like most teenaged girls when they passed reflective surfaces, she looked at herself, sighed at her fat, and began examining themselves. She was neither short nor tall – tall enough not to be considered short, but too short to be considered tall. It was her height which bothered her the most, instead of her hooded eyes. Her father called her eyes "disdainful", her mother called them "imperious", and Amelia herself called them "lazy". In truth, it was a bit of all three – her eyes of a gold-green shade, thickly lashed and had a habit of dropping to a low stance, giving her a proud, haughty look. As for her figure, Amelia didn't pay much mind to it. She was slender, that much was enough, but recently a bit of weight had been adding to her hips and thighs since she gave up walking with her mother. Playing the violin was much more interesting than physical exercise, and her figure was suffering because of it. But it was none of these faults that bothered her – it was the fact that she was so _clumsy_. The only time her fingers didn't break things or drop items was when she was playing the violin, so she played it as often as possible. Her fingers and hands didn't like to cooperate with her brain, and her legs had the annoying habit of getting tangled up in tablecloths and other such items.

There was a rap at the door, and she leapt for her chair – unfortunately, too late. She struck her elbow on the corner of the desk and yelped in pain, rubbing the sensitive joint and wincing. Her mother came up behind her, laughing a little. "Still avoiding your homework?" She inquired pleasantly. "Your supper's getting cold, sweetie, you can finish up later."

"What time is it?" She asked, rubbing her eyes. Her mother sighed and began picking up the dirty clothes strung around the floor. Amelia watched her with the detached interest of a typical jaded teen.

"Late enough for your father to think you should eat and go to bed," Her mother answered. "But I convinced him to allow you to finish your homework first."

Amelia slumped in her seat. "What about my violin?" She asked. "Can I play after dinner?"

"Absolutely not," her mother said. "You've been putting off your homework for days now, and it needs to get done." She piled the clump of dirty clothes in her laundry hamper and balanced the wicker item on her hip as she stood in the doorway. "I'm glad you like playing the violin, Amelia, but schoolwork comes first. You can't get far with just a major in music – you need to expand your sights. You're so smart, honey, you could be anything."

Amelia picked morosely at the gaping edge of her desk where the faux wood lining was coming apart. "I know," she sighed. It was true – there were so many starving musicians in the world, it wasn't even funny. She rumpled her hair again and nodded. "What's for dinner?" She asked, following her mother down the stairs. Her mother shrugged a little.

"Leftovers," she said. "Your father chose to eat some old pizza and a bowl of cereal. I have some spaghetti heating up for you, and if you want I can make you a grilled cheese. Do you have any questions about your math, honey?"

She had questions, sure, but not about math. Why was she so attracted to playing the violin, for one. Why was she so good at math but so uninspired by it, was another. But she shrugged and shook her head, instead electing to eat her nuked leftovers and think about her violin. Maybe, if the rain stopped later tonight, she could finish her homework quickly and go out on the porch to play through a few stanzas. Or she could use the living room, even though her father usually watched his aggressive-sounding political shows after dinner. She twirled a few strands of pasta around a fork and began scraping her dish quickly, determined to finish dinner and homework before nine o'clock. Her mother came up from the laundry room and caught sight of her only daughter wolfing down her food. "Slow down, homework will still be there when you get to it," She reminded her, continuing down to her bedroom. There was a click of the bathroom door as her mother began getting ready for bed, and Amelia heard her father punch on the television.

Her dinner finished, she slotted her plate quickly among the other dishes and banged the door to the dishwasher shut with her hip, hurrying back upstairs, the taste of garlic sauce still lingering in her mouth. She retrieved her pencil from under the bed and began scribbling down numbers, hastily wrapping up her math homework. It would earn her a C+ at best, because she guessed half of them, but at least her homework was done. When she glanced at the clock, she saw it was six minutes to nine. Her heart sank, but she resolutely took out her violin from her case and dragged both the bulky black case and the sleek mahogany instrument downstairs. Her father's television was cranked up, and she stuck her tongue out at him when he was shouting angrily at some clip of the president. She poked her head outside and almost cried at the torrent of rain still pouring in sheets from the sky. Angrily, she slammed the door and marched down to the basement with her nose in the air. The washing machine was humming quietly in the corner, and the sound of the storm outside was mostly muffled. Although, because it was January, the temperature down in the basement was ridiculously cold, enough for her to see her breath and for her skin to pebble. She upturned a milk crate and sat down, tucking her violin under her chin and drawing her bow along the string, playing one note in the quiet of the basement, testing to see how it sounded. It was fine – rather tinny in the cramped confines of the room, but she could live with that.

The song she began playing was slow, soft, and almost luxurious to hear. Her fingers sketched lightly over the strings, applying just the right pressure as she drew her bow, the pure music twisting into a harmonious tapestry of sound. She closed her eyes and saw what she always saw whenever she played this song – a gentle glade full of shy sunlight, thick moss creeping slowly over tree roots, Spanish moss trailing from trees and skimming the ground. Her bow moved faster, picking up speed, and the sensual song she had been playing became a foot-taping jig, rife with whirling notes and a tempo that increased by the moment. The glade melted into mist, reforming instead to a dusty barn full of sawdust, people clapping and cheering, holding hands and dancing while she played the violin. When she finished, she was sweating and her fingers were numb from playing so quickly. Slowly, she put her violin back in her case and tried to calm her unsteady breathing. A light sheen of sweat had beaded her brow, and she got up with a smug, satisfied grin on her face. It felt _so good_ to play – the air crackled with electricity. It was as though she could taste the music in the air as she played, feel the notes gliding around her like large glossy butterflies. She almost wished someone had been here to listen to her – she had been exceptional. With a little smirk on her face, Amelia mounted the stairs and came back up, sated, her thirst for music slaked for the moment.

"Amelia!" Her father called. "Can I stop this recording? I can't watch my football show when you have so many channels recording!" he shouted. Amelia came into the room and took the remote from his hand without a word, her good mood melting away. She looked at the screen and debated. It was Wednesday, which meant that _The Mentalist_ would be on, and she didn't want to miss that. But it was also the night where the played _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ for the last time this year. With a sigh, she punched the "Stop this recording" button and left the room, ignoring her mental argument with herself. _Wait, you fool!_ Her mind shouted at her. _You're going to ignore Patrick Jane, the most handsome consultant of all time, and the Grinch, the funniest character of the holiday season, to go sit and mope? WHY? WHY, you foolish, incompetent child? _

She growled a little to herself and banged open her door. _I should stop talking to myself_, she said in her head, _because that's the first sign of a mentally unbalanced person. Then again, since when have I been balanced? _This thought was punctuated by her already bruised kneecap colliding with the edge of her bed, and she yowled, rubbing the top of her knee, ignoring the smarting sensation. She had to do _something_. She couldn't sit here and be bored. Her haughty eyes flickered around the room, and then landed on the battered old television in the corner. Shrugging, she got up and began examining her movie collection.

_Aladdin has Jafar in it,_ she said to herself, _but it also has a princess with a brain the size of a flea. Moving on. Ooh, Lord of the Rings. A possibility, but I think it's scratched. And anyway, who wants to see Gollum prancing around naked and coughing all the time? So, ew. OH! Star Wars alert! With Liam Neeson! Even better! Aww man, it's not The Phantom Menace, it's ... Hunchback of Notre Dame? What the hell is that? _She slid the movie completely out of its case and examined it. The movie seemed old, fairly scarred, and very dusty. She pushed it into her VCR and waited for the grainy screen to settle into place, sat on her bed and tucked both feet under her, careful not to knock anything over. Her fingers traced patterns on the sleek cover of her violin case in preparation for the movie. For some reason, the screen started to get fuzzier instead of clearer, so she sighed and got up. Obviously, the tape was too old to be played, so she reached for the eject button to remove it before it damaged her VCR. Her fingertip connected with the eject button, but instead of taking the movie out, the movie took her in. She barely had time to gasp when she felt the strangest sensation – almost like she had been shrunk like a sweater washed in hot water. The only texture that remained the same was the hard case of her violin under her fingertips. Everything else began to slide and shift, like sand sliding underfoot. There was a noise like a tape being ejected, and she saw only blackness.

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**A/N: Sorry, no muse for Lord of the Rings, so I'm moving onto Disney films! Isn't that lovely? I know this isn't my usual quality, nor my usual format, but I've been so discouraged lately that I'm hoping something like this will cheer me up. Anyway, please leave a review! All reviewers will be publically thanked!**


	2. Chapter 1: Of Fools and Thieves

**~*Chapter One: Of Fools and Thieves*~**

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><p>There was no whirlwind of colors or lights, no weird noises or sounds – just the awkward feeling of being sucked into her television and then the strangest sensation of lying down. She blinked once as something cold and wet seeped into her sock-clad foot, and pushed herself up on her elbows. She was lying on a cobblestone street, her left foot immersed in a slushy, frigid puddle, her violin case a few inches away. Her hair was soaked at the tips, and she stood up, brushing herself off. The thick, fluffy blue pajama bottoms were scuffed from being sucked into – well, wherever she was. As she scrubbed the grittiness from her eyes, she began to slowly take in the sudden change in her surroundings. She was standing on a cobblestone street, holding a violin case, in the middle of what appeared to be a city. A horse and buggy passed by, the iron-shod hooves ringing out frostily against the hard, cold stones, and she squinted. <em>A horse and buggy? Whose got the what now?<em> She thought to herself. A few soldiers – also on horseback – were accompanying the buggy, and she stared stupidly until the entire little party was out of sight. There didn't seem to be many people around; ahead of her, there was the sound of fast music and laughter, but she stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by her new surroundings. A wooden sign swung slowly, creakily, in the stiff zephyr of breeze that froze her wet sock and made her skin pebble. A storefront was filled with crusty loaves of bread, artfully displayed in a wheelbarrow and a basket; a bistro held a couple of shadowy shapes stirring restlessly in the gloom of the store. Overhead, the sky was cloudy and gray, downy gray skies knitting together to form a quilt of overlapping shades of silver. Amelia shook her head blearily, and then pinched herself hard on the arm. There was a stinging sensation, and she yelped a little. _Okay, so this isn't a dream_... She told herself, and then groaned. _Oh, why couldn't I have put Star Wars in the VCR? I could be schmoozing with Qui-Gon Jinn right now, not sitting in a filthy street in the middle of nowhere! Not to mention I'm soaking wet and dirty, my hair is a mess, and my violin – Oh, my god, my violin!_

Hastily, she popped open the snaps and checked her glossy instrument. It was intact, not even the slightest nick or scratch to mar the smooth, buffed surface. She heaved a sigh of relief and closed the lid again, hugging the unyielding black case close to her chest. She hesitantly picked her way around the puddles and made her way over to the sound of the music and laughter. Maybe once she got there, she would wake up. Or maybe, if she slapped herself really, really hard, then she would wake up. She ignored her ridiculous thoughts with practiced ease and stopped short when she saw a dense crowd laughing, eating, and drinking. Most of them appeared to be children, all dressed in ragged clothes with dirty faces. A few men and women were dressed in faded costumes with bright colors, wearing jester's hats or other silly outfits. There were clowns and jesters, stilt walkers and mimes, all of them laughing, dancing, singing, or telling jokes. Several couples were dancing to the fast music seemingly coming from nowhere. Absently, Amelia identified the rather crude notes in the simplistic song, scratching her nose and peering myopically around her. Most of the people there were blonde, with curly hair and fine features, but there seemed to be a select few who were mysteriously dark. These dark people had the brightest clothes, and thick black hair, along with strikingly beautiful faces. They looked, Amelia mused, a bit like the pictures of gypsies she saw in Disney movies. The Dark Gypsies (as she called them mentally) were doing most of the dancing, their ruffled skirts or trousers garnering them showers of gold coins. Everyone around her seemed to speak English, but with a heavy French accent, which was weird in itself. She made her way through the crowd, uncertainly stepping between a costumed horse and a man wearing stilts.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle_!" Amelia heard a chirruping voice say. She turned and saw a Dark Gypsy child, complete with a brass earring in his ear and thick curly black hair. He had the plump, cherubic features only children under ten can obtain, and he smiled with a mouth full of flashing white teeth. One chubby arm was around the neck of a small goat, and Amelia saw with something like horror that the goat's ear was also pierced. "I like your costume, _mademoiselle_!" The little boy shouted over the hubbub of the crowd.

"Costume...?" Amelia said, bewildered, looking down at herself. She was wearing her fluffy blue sweatpants that she always wore to bed, along with a raspberry-colored tank top that was providing her no protection against the biting winds. The goat looked at her with a surprisingly human expression of skepticism on its face. _Okay...I'm talking to a little kid and a goat with human eyebrows and a pierced ear...What's wrong with this picture?_ Amelia asked herself.

The little boy laughed. "_Oui_! You are a woman, dressed like a man! It is a perfect costume on Topsy Turvy Day!" With that, the boy skipped off, his arm still around the neck of the goat. Amelia blinked. _Topsy Turvy Day? What the blinking heck?_ She said to herself. Amelia opened her mouth to say something, but she found her elbow being roughly jostled by an eager young girl desperately trying to push past her.

"Move, _madam_!" The girl snapped. "Judge Frollo is passing!"

Having not the vaguest inkling who or what Judge Frollo was, Amelia found herself chivvied backwards until there was a respectable pathway through the heart of the thick crowd. The large buggy that had passed by earlier was passing by now, and Amelia frowned, confused, as the soldiers clip-clopped past her once more. The carriage was iron gray, with windows along the sides, but black curtains had been drawn and gave no hint to what sort of person was inside. Half out of curiosity, and half out of annoyance, Amelia began following the small shoal of people tailing the carriage. With her luck, she would recognize someone and be able to wake up out of this dream. The horses in front of her abruptly stopped, and one of the soldiers twisted in his seat. "You there! Girl! Stand back!" The soldier shouted, and Amelia leapt back into the crowd like a frightened rabbit in a thicket. The carriage opened, and a tall, gray-haired man stepped out. Long black robes brushed the ground as he stalked slowly up a few steps to a seat connected to the stage. Several rings flashed and winked in the dim light, and Amelia felt a little twinge of fear as he passed. Judge Frollo – or whatever his name was – had a cold, ruthless expression, with a lip curled into a sneer and his long, thin fingers folded in front of him. He swept imperiously past her, and Amelia dropped her eyes to the scummy cobblestones. The soldiers broke apart, ringing the small pavilion where Judge Frollo was seated, and Amelia drew closer to them, like a moth to light.

"Excuse me," She shouted as politely as possible to one of the soldiers. She had been careful and selected the nicest looking one there, a tall, broad-chested man with blonde hair and beard. "Could you tell me where I am?" The soldier raised an eyebrow and laughed a little.

"You're in Paris, France, little one," He said, without a trace of an accent. She felt her brow quirking in spite of herself. "Are you all right? Does your family know you are at the festival?" He asked, a concerned look on his face.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Amelia said, waving her hand. "Thanks anyway." She forced her way back through the crowd. "Paris, France, my left butt cheek," She growled. "Since when do I pass out in New Hampshire and end up in France?" She asked no one in particular, finding herself by the corner of the stage. A tall man (He looked like a Dark Gypsy) leapt on the stage, his black hair grazing his jaw, his face covered by a mask, his head covered by a purple hat with two gold feathers stuck in at a jaunty angle. His clothes were a patchwork of the bright and ridiculous, resulting in a jester's costume with long black gloves. His voice was clear and ringing as he sang out above the crowd, his song strong and happy.

"Hurry, hurry, here's your chance,

See the finest girl in France,

Dance, Esmeralda...Dance!"

He flung down a handful of glittering white powder and a plume of purple smoke shot up, his tall frame suddenly disappearing. But when the smoke cleared, instead of the tall man, there was a breathtakingly beautiful woman in his place. Her black hair was roiling free down her shoulders, spilling like ink down her back. Her green eyes were vividly green and rimmed with a careful layer of kohl, making them seem larger than they really were. Her skirts were crimson and violet, deep ruffles hiding her long, slender legs, her breasts full and clearly visible through her bodice. Amelia felt her jaw drop at the sight of her hourglass figure, but she couldn't believe how amazing the woman looked when she began dancing. Her motions were fluid and graceful, sexy and taunting as she sashayed her hips and shook her thick hair. She felt a little inadequate at the face of such beauty, especially such _graceful_ beauty; All at once Amelia realized she was clumsy and silly looking with a violin case in her arms, while this woman was, in a word, _gorgeous_. The woman – Esmeralda – flounced daringly in the lap of Judge Frollo, her silken blue scarf looping around his neck and drawing his lined face close to hers. Her expression went from sassy to playful as she pushed the stricken Judge back in his seat with his hat in his face, parading back up to the stage. The golden-haired soldier who Amelia asked for directions seemed to be very taken with her.

When the dance ended, Amelia felt herself coming back to reality. She shook her head blearily, stumbling back through the crowd. The song was starting up again, but she didn't feel like going back near the stage. She was confused and befuddled, wondering for the first time if this _wasn't_ a dream. What if she had somehow been pulled through the movie and into the real world? It would explain how everything was "Disney-fied" – humanized goats, no French-speaking natives, gypsies, wicked looking villains. Amelia leaned against a nearby building and felt her heart rate increase in speed like horses escaping from a barn. Her palms, which had been dry up till now, began to sweat, and she shuffled her violin case from hand to hand as she wiped her palms on her pajama pants. Her eyes felt moist as she looked around her. Was this all real? A young man pushed roughly past her, hurrying away from the crowd with an excited look on his face. Amelia went sprawling inelegantly in the mud, scraping her arms and cheeks on the gritty cobblestones, and splashing dirty slush on her face, slopping it down the front of her shirt. She spat out a mouthful of disgusting tasting muddy water.

Yup. Most likely real.

Amelia got to her feet and clung to her violin case, wondering how much damage this violin could take. No instrument was indestructible, and violins were especially fragile. She didn't want it to be damaged; if she actually was in another world, this was the only replica that she had of her old home. Swallowing a hard lump in her throat, Amelia sat down on the streets and clicked open her violin case. Again, it appeared to be undamaged, and she stroked one smooth side fondly. It would relax her greatly to play, but she didn't want to let her guard down for a second. Also, the crowd was now screaming wildly, and the noise was terrific. She scowled at the shouts, and then took her violin out of the case, turning it expertly over to check the bottom. There was a minor nick on the bridge, but that was from several years ago during a rather awful recital. With a satisfied sigh, she nestled the precious violin back in the firm nest of velvet, dragging a finger down the slick side. When a voice sounded near her elbow, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"_Bonjour,_ _mademoiselle!"_ A familiar voice crowed. When Amelia finished hyperventilating and carefully piecing herself back into her skin, she saw it was the cherubic little boy who had commented on her 'costume'. On the other side of her was a thinner, angular boy of about the same age, with similar looks and earrings in his ear. "We like your pretty toy. What is it, and what does it do?" The little boy asked. Amelia scooted her violin a little bit away from him. She didn't like children as a rule, and this child was about to make her dislike them even more. If he laid one sticky finger on her violin, she would scream.

"It's not a _toy_," Amelia said brusquely. "It's a violin. And it plays music. Don't touch it, please."

"Can you play us a song, _mademoiselle_?" The other boy said, his hollowed cheeks filling a little when he looked at the instrument. "It looks very strange. How does it play music?"

"It's hard to play," Amelia said, burying her face in her hands. "Now please leave me alone. I'm kind of having a crisis, right now."

There was a childish giggle near her ear. "You talk strange, _mademoiselle_!" The plump boy laughed. "Where do you come from?"

"New York," Amelia said. "Where am I now? And don't you dare say Paris!" She warned. The little boy shrugged.

"You are in New York." He answered. Amelia blinked.

"What? Really? Where?" She sputtered. The boys laughed uproariously together, and Amelia slumped back on the gutter.

"You said not to say 'Paris'," the thinner boy chuckled. "Pierre was only saying what you wanted to hear. You are a funny lady. Can we play with you again sometime?"

Amelia shooed him off distractedly. "Enough! Leave me alone and let me have my meltdown!" She said angrily. The boys laughed and took off like twin comets. For a long while, Amelia didn't understand why they had taken off so quickly. She sighed and leaned back, her hand reached automatically behind her to make sure her violin was safe.

It wasn't there.

She peered at the spot, unable to believe that her violin had been stolen by two thieving little boys. When her muscles unfroze, she jumped to her feet with a shout of alarm. "Thieves!" She screamed, making the nearby pigeons flap lazily away. "You little thieves, I swear to God I'll kill you!"

She took off after them, her sock-clad feet pounding on the slush-covered cobblestones of her new home.

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><p><strong>AN: New chapter! And let me know what you think of Amelia. Her personality will develop in later chapters, I promise. And I know the descriptions are absolutely worthless, I'm so sorry for that. But my life is kind of falling apart at the seams (My children are fighting, James is having a tough time at work, bills are due) and my other stories are getting trashed by a really awful flamer. Anyway, I feel bad about giving you guys a sub-par chapter, but I've rewritten it three times and this is the best way it comes out. Enjoy, despite it's shortcomings.**

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><p><strong>~ * Special Thanks * ~<strong>

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><p><strong>Firestorm N. <strong>Oh, honey, I can't explain how grateful I am for fans like you. You're reading a story you don't even KNOW just because I wrote it. I almost cried when I saw your review. There used to be the full movie on YouTube, and there might still be, but I couldn't find it. The only one I could find was a dubbed version that's all right, but part of the charm of Clopin is his voice. Anyway, if you want to find out a bit of Clopin's personality, go on YouTube and look up the songs "Topsy Turvy", "Court of Miracles", and "The Bells of Notre Dame". Those are the three songs he sings, and he sings them smashingly, if I do say so myself. Anyway, good luck, and I hope you enjoy this story!

**Nostalgia's Mah Best Friend: **Phoebus will get his share of luvin from his Gypsy girlfriend, believe me. Although that's not the main pairing in this story, there will be little hints to them here and there. Clopin definitely needs more love! I can't believe there aren't mobs of fangirls about him. GAH!

**Fireheart Ninja: **I hope you continue to enjoy it! And I hope I haven't totally ruined your liking of girl's getting pulled into movie ideas, because I'm just SO UNINSPIRED! It's not even funny! :/

**kaitamis: **Here you go! 8D

**Eva Sirico**: WOW! I'm not the only person who uses 'wicked'! I grew up in the Boston area, so my accent still twinges every now and then. But I cling to 'wicked', even though I don't write it very often. Yeah for wicked!

**Fickle'Fan'Girl: **I am soooooo grateful that you've decided to give my story a chance! I hope I can change your ideas of bad 'girl-gets-pulled-into-movie-and-ends-up-with-smexxi-character'. I'll admit, I thought of you when I wrote this chapter, mostly because this chapter is really below my usual standard. I can't seem to get a firm grasp on my muse – he's a slippery little booger these days – and I feel so bad that you guys get the short end of the stick because of my faults. Anyway, Amelia will get more personality in later chapters, just give her time. Enjoy!


	3. Chapter 2: Of Sanctuary and Guards

**~*Chapter Two: Of Sanctuary And Guards*~**

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><p>Amelia was a lot of things – quiet, shy, clumsy, witty, sarcastic, and an excellent violin player. But she was <em>not <em>athletic. The two little boys were running like smoke on the wind, suddenly vanishing for no reason at all, only to appear a few feet away with a grin on their face. Her fingers came within inches of her violin case, only to have it snatched away by the boys as they laughed and ran. She tripped for the second time in five minutes, going head over heels and landing in a sloppy, slushy, freezing puddle. Her clothes were drenched, her hair was dripping wet, and she was about to turn into the world's largest human ice cube, but she wanted her violin case back. When she picked herself up and swiped her red hair from her eyes, she saw they were nowhere to be seen. They had disappeared like mice, their dark hair and laughing eyes mocking her from behind her closed eyes. A hot sob choked her throat and she shouted incoherently several times, and then sat down on the street, cradling her face in her hands. She was wet, cold, hungry, exhausted, and missing the only thing of value that she had with her. Her skin was numb and prickled unpleasantly whenever another breeze sang through the street, and her wet clothes and hair weren't helping matters. Amelia got to her feet and hugged herself tightly, glaring bitterly down the road. She had learned to play the violin on that beautiful instrument, had played it almost every day since seventh grade, her fingers gradually moving faster and faster over the delicate strings. She had played in orchestras and bands, as a violinist and a fiddler, and she had earned a good deal of money with that violin. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to say that she even loved the violin, and now it was gone in the hands of two little boys who would no doubt break the fragile violin as easily as an egg. A patter of droplets colored the street as she wrung out her hair, and she looked down the road again, wishing against all hopes that her violin would come back to her.

She was blissfully unaware that a pair of sharp black eyes were watching her from an alley. The King of Gypsies was leaning against the solid wall of the bakery, watching the redhead curse under her breath. She was a curious looking girl, with dark red hair that plummeted to her waist in a ramrod straight fashion, with her bangs chopped low over her eyes. It was her eyes that were fascinating – heavy lidded, smirking eyes, that were narrowed with anger as she hugged herself, trying to savor the last vestiges of warmth close to her body. She had a rounded face, freckled as a plover's egg, with a small, willful little chin that was wobbling with her suppressed tears as she swore frequently to herself. All in all, she was rather pretty, if a bit too royal looking. She could be related to a duchess, with her posture and haughty eyes, but what a princess she was! Soaked to the bone, mud plastered on her face, hair a thicket of snarls, tears running down her face, and her clothes a muddied mess. He laughed a bit to himself as he slunk out of the shadows, his movements deliberately slow and careful as he crept past her. Thinking back, he could have paraded a troop of soldiers down the street and she probably wouldn't have noticed, but for the moment, he didn't want her to see him. If she was royalty, she probably thought very little of gypsies. He took off down the street when he was safely out of sight, and caught up to Pierre and Tamas, the two boys who had stolen the woman's odd black case. They had pried it open, and were now examining the sleek brown instrument with expressions of awe on their dark faces, their fingers skimming over the smooth sides. "Ah, Tamas," Clopin said genially, "Where did you get such a pretty trinket?"

Both boys leapt guiltily and looked shamefacedly at the King of Gypsies. He was the king, after all, and Pierre felt his face flush. "We took it from a lady," Pierre admitted. "We were going to return it!" He added hastily, looking at Clopin's restless black eyes and then dropping his gaze once more. "We – we only wanted to look at it, _monsieur_."

Clopin gathered the beautifully intricate instrument in his hands and examined it. There was a small nick on the bridge, but there didn't appear to be any great damage to it. He carefully slid it back in the case and snapped the clasps shut. "Pierre, Tamas, I will have to inform your _mamas_ of this," He said seriously. "Now, run home and do not steal from ladies any more." The boys took off like twin rockets, vanishing around a corner. Clopin tucked the strange black case under his arm and crept stealthily back into the shadows. The violin was very expensive, he could tell that. He had never seen one of such fine craftsmanship, and it only renewed his certainty that the woman was of some nobility. He waited silently until the woman drew level with him, stumbling every other step, and at one point falling flat on her face again. He hid a grin behind his mask. If she was royalty, she was the clumsiest royalty he had seen in his life.

Amelia shrieked aloud when she heard a foreign voice sound at her side. "Ah, _mademoiselle,_ are you looking for this?" The voice asked, a bite of an accent written in the quick tones. She turned, startled, and nearly fell over again. Before she knew what had happened, a hand was in the small of her back and righting her quickly. "You are rather clumsy, no?" He noted, and handed her the violin case. Amelia shook her head abruptly, trying to make heads or tails of what just happened. In front of her, was the gypsy who had sang on the stage. Up close, she could tell he was very tall, with a pointed goatee and a gold earring in his ear. A mask covered the greater portion of his face, so all she could see were bright black eyes that looked at her with curiosity and amusement, and a few inches of tan skin. His clothes were bright and almost an eyesore, if he hadn't been so very nice looking; his smile was quick and slightly crooked, twitching up the corner of his mouth lightly. But then all of this was driven from her mind when she realized what was in her arms. Without a second of hesitation, she fell to her knees and tore open the lid, taking the beautiful instrument out with practiced ease. She checked it carefully, examining every particle of her instrument. When she discovered it was relatively unharmed, she closed the lid and shot to her feet.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" She said, and hugged him fiercely. Clopin looked bewildered and easily dispatched the demonstrative girl. Those haughty eyes didn't look nearly as cold up close – she had a gratefulness in her eyes that was almost overwhelming. "You have no idea what a terrible day I've had – I had homework, and I had to sneak my violin playing, and then I ended up here, and that woman was dancing, and this mean dude told me to get out of the way, and then my violin got stolen, and I tripped, and I'm soaking wet and miserable, and then you came, and oh, _thank_ you so much! You have no idea how much this means to me!" Amelia said.

Clopin blinked. "I think I'm beginning to get the idea, _mademoiselle_," he said, staving off another fierce hug with a laugh. "May I ask your name, _madam_?" He asked. Amelia grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.

"I'm Amelia, Amelia James. It's so great to meet you, thank you for getting my violin back. It means a lot to me." She said.

"_Oui_, I can tell," Clopin said. "Now, be careful with your instrument, Amelia, and I bid you good day." He said, his restless black eyes suddenly looking very sharp. He melted into the shadows, and Amelia looked around, confused. Her confusion ended when she heard the rearing of horses behind her, and she backed up, clutching her violin tightly to her chest.

"You there! Girl! You were talking to a gypsy, weren't you?" The man demanded. He was astride a big brown horse, and his helmet was down, masking his features from view. "What is that, girl? What did he give you?"

"My violin," Amelia said. "It was stolen and he gave it back."

"Nonsense! Gypsies don't steal and then give things back!" The guard sneered. "Open the case, girl! Now!"

Amelia growled, but opened the case. "See? It's a violin. _My_ violin." She yelped in pain when one of the guards snatched her wrist.

"You were speaking with a gypsy," The other guard snarled, "That is punishable by twenty lashes. Bring her to the Palace of Justice."

"Wait, lashes? With a belt? Oh, no, no, no, no!" Amelia said, trying in vain to jerk her arm free of the guard's vice like grip. "I have a really low pain threshold, see? I trip all the time and stuff, but I – ouch! Look, I was just thanking him for returning my violin, that's all, we weren't planning a revolt or anything –"

"You were planning a revolt?" The guard asked, his voice harsh. "Take her to Judge Frollo immediately!"

"No, you idiots! I was being _sarcastic_!" Amelia cried, struggling awkwardly. Her violin case was torn from her grasp, and she stamped on the foot of one of the guards. This had no effect, and she found herself being hoisted in the air, kicking and struggling. Everything froze when a piercing whistle cracked through the air.

"Oh, _monsieur,_ surely you have better things to do than harass young ladies in the streets?" A familiar voice asked. The soldiers turned and saw Clopin standing only a few yards away, a maddening smirk on his face.

From nowhere, a small, brightly painted puppet emerged. "But they are Judge Frollo's dogs," the puppet said in a squeaky voice. "They are fat and lazy and do not have anything to do but twist poor young ladies arms."

Clopin whacked the puppet on the head with a stick from his sleeve. "Silly boy, they are not Frollo's dogs, they are Frollo's pigs, anyone can tell. See, they have upturned noses like pigs!"

The puppet shrugged. "Pigs, dogs, what's the difference? They both smell bad and need a bath."

Amelia found herself deposited on the street none too gently, the guards running after Clopin, who turned neatly around a corner. Bewildered and confused, Amelia scrambled to her feet and hugged her violin case to her chest. She did the sensible thing and tore off towards the crowds, hoping to lose herself in the masses of people. Her numb feet froze as she splashed through more puddles and tried to avoid the frozen sewer, from which a bad smell was rising. Behind her, the noises of the guards chasing the gypsy overlapped into the sounds of the festival, which was still going on. People were running around like ants at work, scurrying to and fro, guards upturning things while music faintly played in the background. Amelia was jostled roughly and pushed through the mobs, tripping over broken kegs of ale, the foamy contents gurgling onto the grimy stones. Baskets of sweet bread and other goodies were smashed and spoiled underfoot, trodden on by hooves and feet. Guards and horses were everywhere, but clowns still juggled and stilt walkers still made faces. There was a tense aura of forced happiness, despite the obvious signs of upheaval, and Amelia realized she hadn't been very smart by coming here. _Yeah, leave the three guards who wanted to beat you and come into the mob of guards who want to kill you. Smart, Amelia, you're so smart!_ She thought sarcastically to herself.

Someone jerked her elbow and spun her around to face him, and she almost screamed. A hand clapped over her mouth, and she found herself alarmingly close to the masked gypsy who had previously lured the guards away. His eyes were cold and hard now, having lost the amused twinkle which had filled his eyes before. "Run to Notre Dame, _mademoiselle_," He breathed in her ear. "Run to Notre Dame and claim sanctuary. Hurry!" He pushed her back into the crowds, and she stumbled a bit, her head pounding from the changing of scenery and attitudes. One moment she was thanking him, the next moment he was saving her life twice in as many moments. _This is so Disney_, she told herself. _Good one moment, bad the next._ _Just remember, happy ending, happy ending, happy ending!_

She had never been to Notre Dame, but she had seen pictures. Pictures couldn't do it justice, and even in the frenzied rush of the crowds around her, she could see that the huge cathedral was massive and beautiful. Stone gargoyles leered and growled from the eaves, and colossal columns supported the thick roof. A stained glass window of stunning beauty depicted Baby Jesus and his mother, and it reflected the activity outside, blurry shapes twisting and moving in the reflection. Amelia held her violin tightly and began making maximum use of her elbows, pushing and shoving her way to the door. Guards were swarming around the cathedral, and they took little notice of the red-haired girl thrusting her way past them and into the cathedral. But once she was inside, she had half a mind to go back out.

Judge Frollo was there, every inch of him covered in black, his graying hair accenting his lined, proud face and crooked nose. The blonde guard who Amelia had asked directions from was also standing there, along with the flawlessly gorgeous woman who had been dancing on the stage. Also in the background were several soldiers and what looked like a short priest, all of them looking as though they were in the midst of an argument. There was a pregnant pause while all eyes slid to Amelia, and Amelia cringed. These were not the patient, admiring eyes of a crowd of people ready to hear her perform – these were eyes of mingled hate, curiosity, fear, despair, and anger, all boring into her. Amelia grasped her violin case tightly. "Sanctuary," She said, the words tripping over each other in an effort to get out. "I claim sanctuary." She remembered reading about this somewhere – perhaps in a history book – where wrongdoers could claim sanctuary in a church for as long as they wanted. Judge Frollo looked like he might have a stroke, or perhaps a heart attack.

"The Notre Dame has dropped to harboring gypsies and common thieves?" He snarled. "You, girl, what do you have in that bag?"

Amelia felt her almost nonexistent temper flare up. "Look, buster, it's not a bag, it's a violin case. And the violin is mine, it's been mine since seventh grade. Why does everyone think I stole it? And what the hell is going on here? Are you all claiming sanctuary?"

"No, just this gypsy strumpet," Frollo growled. The stunning gypsy woman made an angry noise in the back of her throat and started towards him, but the priest stopped her.

"No, my child," The priest warned. "Let him leave. Our Honorable Judge has learned quite a lot about violating the bonds of sanctuary in the past years." The priest said, glaring at the judge. Frollo curled his lip.

"Very well. She shall remain here, then. Captain, post guards at every entry. These women are not to go in or out." As he turned to go, he locked eyes with the beautiful gypsy. "As we all know, gypsies value their freedom. See how long you last within stone walls."

To Amelia, this didn't sound all that bad. Trapped in what looked like a gorgeous cathedral, with a nice-looking priest, with a beautiful gypsy, didn't sound horrible, especially now that she had her violin. But to the gypsy girl, it looked like the end of the world. The doors slammed as the blonde captain left with an apologetic glance at the women, and then Amelia turned to the gypsy. She was even more beautiful up close, with wild black hair and amazing green eyes. The priest sighed. "Come, my daughters, we shall eat in the kitchens." The priest said, gesturing to the doors. The gypsy sighed and shook her head, following the priest mutely. Amelia paused before leaving the doorway, her eyes scanning the shadows in the room.

Because she could have sworn she had seen something move.

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><p><strong>AN: My muse is starting to perk up a bit, so I'm throwing this chapter out just to see what you guys think of it. Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>~* Special Thanks *~ <strong>

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><p><strong>Firestorm N.:<strong> Captain Jack is awesome! I was toying with the idea of making the Author series something to expand across several fandoms, with different Authors each time, of course, but the same basic principle. Go in, kill Mary Sue, fix the story, get out. Pirates of the Caribbean was the fandom I was going to enter into, but right now I want to concentrate on finishing this little ficlet (It won't be very long, maybe 10 chapters at the most) and then trying to finish Well Behaved Women and my current Authors series. But I would probably go into that fandom and pair someone with Cap'n Jack, just because he's so awesome. xD

**Eva Sirico: **Wow! I've never been to Maine before, but I've been to most of the other States, so that's really cool! Is it really wet up there this time of year? I know that all of my girlfriends down here think I have this thick accent (They actually call it a 'brogue') but really, it's just a bit of a nip now and then. For instance, I can't say the letter R. Which is weird. Anyway, it'll be a while until Amelia has a 'grand old time', considering that she's in a different universe with nothing but dirty clothes, her name, and a violin. Tell me what you think about the exchange between her and our favorite gypsy! 3

**Fireheart Ninja:** I know! I would love to be in Star Wars with Qui-Gon. He's...wow. That's all I can say. WOW. Such a big, strong, handsome Jedi...*happy sigh*. Er, yeah, moving on.

**Nostalgia's My Best Friend:** Clopin is amazing, but he doesn't have as many fangirls as you might think. As I understand, they prefer Phoebus and his corny jokes over Clopin and his puppet and epicness. Which is weird. Because Clopin is made of pure, undiluted epicness.

**Kira Michi:**No Court of Miracles yet, sweetie. But believe me, she'll get there within the next chapter or two. xD She has to get there, in order to get her man.


	4. Chapter 3: Of Songs and Gypsies

**~* Chapter Three: Of Songs and Gypsies *~**

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><p>The stone walls of the Notre Dame cathedral were firm and solid, but cold and austere. There seemed to be a regal, lingering warmth to the place, only visible in certain pockets, while the rest of it was shrouded behind a cold, religious mask. Amelia stood bathed in the majestic colors of the stained glass window, her haughty eyes mesmerized by the bejeweled window, so many different colors blended together and mixed to form a circular rainbow. The face of the Baby Jesus was innocent and sweet, angelic features captured on milky squares of glass. And oh, the Virgin Mary! Such beauty was unparalleled by anything Amelia had ever seen. Mary seemed to have a serene beauty that held the mysteries of the universe if you stared long enough, gazing at her cloudy blue eyes and loving hands. Amelia rumpled her untidy red hair and sighed, feeling horribly inadequate yet again, and this time in front of a stained glass window. She sat down on the cold floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Her violin case was lying innocuously next to her, seemingly also in awe of the deep, resonant tones of the bells above them. Amelia flicked open the clasps, the brass now quite dull and the black case very scuffed and muddied from being dragged about in Paris the entire day. Her violin was unscathed, however, and Amelia withdrew it from the case carefully, her practiced fingers settling the instrument beneath her chin, feeling her pulse sound softly against the hard wood. At times like this, Amelia liked to imagine that her violin also had a heart, beating in unison with her own. Slowly, she drew the bow across the strings and allowed the sound to fill the room, the echoes and recesses being softened by the smooth, satiny sound of the beautiful violin.<p>

It seemed only fitting to play a religious song, and Amelia's fingers danced across the strings to play "Do You Hear What I Hear?". It seemed as though a thousand violins were playing together, their high, unearthly strains mingling in a tapestry of sound and delight, as though a choir of angels were singing along with her violin. Amelia closed her eyes and allow the song to thrum through her system, replacing the huge cathedral with a pasture full of sheep, the muted bleats of baby lambs snuggling with their mothers. Above her head was not a vaulted stone ceiling, but a black velvet night sprinkled with stars. She was so caught up in her song that she waited for a moment of quiet respect after she had finished, allowing the last vestiges of music to gather together in a whispering melody as it died away. Amelia heard a soft voice behind her, tinted with a peculiar accent, something French, but also something different, an unknown way of twisting her words that made her tone sound like silver water rippling around smooth rocks. "You play well," The voice said, and Amelia turned. That beautiful gypsy woman was sitting a good distance away, her peasant skirts ruffled around her ankles and her blouse sliding off her shoulders. "That's a very nice violin," The woman continued. "Where did you get it?"

Amelia shrugged. "Clark's Music Store downtown," She said, without thinking. When the gypsy woman cocked her head, Amelia amended herself. "I mean, well, a friend of mine makes them, so I bought one from him. It's my favorite instrument. Do you play anything?" Amelia said, trying not to sound as though she were babbling. The gypsy woman shrugged.

"A little flute, some tambourine, but mostly I dance," She said. "What song were you just playing? I've never heard it before."

Amelia flushed. She loved to hear compliments about her music, despite hearing them so often. "It's called 'Do You Hear What I Hear?'," She explained. "I thought it would be fitting to play a Christmas song in a church, and that's the one I play best. Plus, I didn't think 'Jingle Bells' really fit the mood."

The gypsy woman scooted a little closer. "Does it have words?" She asked, and now Amelia could see that her eyes were large green orbs that reflected millions of different shades of green. Amelia blushed.

"Sure it has words, but if I sang them, you'd think your goat was singing." Amelia said. The goat, of all things, looked affronted. The gypsy laughed.

"This is Djali, my friend," The gypsy said. "And I'm Esmeralda. Who are you?"

"Uh, Amelia," She said quickly. "Amelia James. Would – I mean, would you like me to teach you the song?"

"Of course," Esmeralda said, coming a little closer. Djali grunted a little and nipped at Amelia's fingers suspiciously. "Djali, stop it," Esmeralda chided. Djali looked a little sheepish – that is, if a goat could ever look sheepish. "Go on and sing, Amelia. We're listening."

If there was anything like putting the pressure on, it was this. Amelia wouldn't just be performing for the holy Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, but she had to perform in front of a gorgeous gypsy woman who looked like a supermodel and a judgmental goat. She cleared her throat and tried to hide the fact that she was a _terrible _singer. There was a reason why she was in the orchestra and not on the stage with a microphone in her hand – she was a soprano, but her voice was flexible, changing one second from a soprano to a tenor in the blink of an eye.

_"Said the night wind to the little lamb,_

_Do you see what I see?_

_Way up in the sky, little lamb,_

_Do you see what I see?_

_A star, a star, _

_Dancing in the night, With a tail as big as a kite,_

_With a tail as big as a kite."_

Amelia shuffled her bare feet against the stone floor shamefacedly. "That's the first chorus, and basically the tune just repeats itself. That's all I know of the song, except this bit where it goes, 'A child, a child, shivers in the cold, let us bring him silver and gold'. That part never made sense – I mean, Baby Jesus is shivering, why not give him a blanket? It's like, 'Okay, the kid's got pneumonia, but he's loaded!'"

Esmeralda laughed a little. "Should I teach you a song I know?" She said. Amelia nodded. "It's a song the gypsies sing when we are near Notre Dame – it's a song of great reverence, of great respect for both our people. We often pray to God, and with all the struggles our people go through, sometimes it's as though he isn't listening." She struggled with herself for a moment, and then sighed.

_"I don't know if you can hear me,_

_Or if you're even there,_

_I don't know if you would listen,_

_To a Gypsy's prayer._

_Yes, I know I'm just an outcast,_

_I shouldn't speak to you,_

_But I look at You and wonder,_

_Weren't you an outcast too?_

_God help the outcasts,_

_Hungry from birth,_

_Show them the mercy,_

_That they don't find on earth,_

_God help my people,_

_We look to you still._

_God help the outcasts,_

_Or nobody will."_

Esmeralda's voice was pure and sweet, honey coated with silver, the voice of an angel as she sang her mournful tune. It was heartfelt, and close, and Amelia could almost see angels weeping. Esmeralda looked at the redhead after she had finished, seeing her round figure, untouched from hunger or fatigue, plump with good food, not the lean, hungry bodies of her people. Coupled with her expensive, precious violin and those mysterious, haughty eyes, there was a good chance that the girl seeking refuge in the cathedral was royalty. But there was that odd humor that didn't seem to relate to anything in this time, something that spoke of years of experience and a rueful, almost bitter outlook on life. Her red hair was spilling over her arms as she leaned forward, hugging her knees and looking down at the floor. In the dim light, she couldn't tell the exact color of her eyes, except they were a green-gold that reminded her of mossy coins, Spanish doubloons in the bottom of a still green pool. Suddenly, the gypsy leaned forward. "Let me see your hand," She said quickly. Amelia broke out of her reverie and gave her a questioning glance. Esmeralda examined the lines on her palm, tracing the grooves along her hand. "Mmm," Esmeralda said with a little twinkle in her eyes. "You're going to have a rich life," She said wisely, "Full of love and life and family. And you're going to marry someone high born, too – someone like yourself." Esmeralda watched her slyly out of the corner of her eye.

Amelia blinked. "High born? My dad's an accountant – he barely makes enough money to pay all the bills. I'm not exactly high bred, Esmeralda. We can't even afford to have a dog." Amelia laughed a little to herself. Esmeralda raised an eyebrow and said nothing, merely smiled secretively. Amelia caught it – Esmeralda was smiling the 'girl-talk' smile. "What?" Amelia asked.

"Oh, nothing..." Esmeralda said. "Except that you're going to marry a handsome man."

Amelia sputtered. "Wait, what? Where is that on my palm?" She demanded. "Show me!"

Esmeralda traced her happiness line on her palm. "See? You're life line and your love line connect early on your hand, proving that you'll marry early in life. And this is your happiness line – see how it goes straight up after your lines meet? It means you'll be happy after you marry. And women are usually happy with handsome husbands."

Amelia collapsed back on the stone floors. "I wish I'd known that earlier," She grumbled. "It would've saved me a lot of worrying."

"Hmm, a high-born, handsome man," Esmeralda said. "There are princes unwed in Paris – perhaps you could marry one of them."

Amelia burst out laughing. "Esmeralda, you haven't got a clue, have you?" She asked. "Princes in shining armor aren't exactly my type. I mean, I once went out with a guy who applied eyeliner to his eyes every morning and painted his nails black with little red hearts on them. I can't pick men to save my life." She looked up at the gypsy. "What about you? What do gypsies like in a man?"

Esmeralda's eyes hardened a little, but Amelia missed it. "Oh, I don't know about other gypsies," She said, her words a little tight, "But I prefer my men honest, dependable, strong, brave...In short, everything that a man is most certainly _not_. As for other gypsies, I don't know Perhaps they're the same. We're all alike, after all."

Amelia shrugged, completely missing Esmeralda's hidden message. "Well, people say that girls my age are all alike, but we're not," She said. "I guess it depends. You're the first gypsy I've met."

Esmeralda's eyes hardened for sure this time. "Oh? And what did people tell you about gypsies before you met one?"

Amelia shrugged. "Dunno. I learned a little bit in school about them – just that they're nomadic people, they use the trading system, they read fortunes and stuff like that. You know, gypsy stuff. And they wear bright clothing, and they arrange marriages. Actually, we were more interested in the arranged marriages bit than the nomadic people thing."

The gypsy looked at her, confused. "I don't understand," She said slowly. "You didn't hear anything else about us? No legends that we steal and kill and rob everybody?" She asked. Amelia cocked an eyebrow.

"You can't judge people like that," She said flatly. "It's like saying all people are bad until you meet them. There's going to be some bad people and some good people – it doesn't matter who or what they are, it just matters what they do. Like, you could be the President and still be a jerk, or you could be an idiot and still be nice. You know, don't just judge a book by it's cover?"

Amelia wasn't aware that her words had a profound effect on both the troubled gypsy woman and the deformed hunchback hanging on every word passing from the gypsy's lips.

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**A/N: I'm popping this chapter off before Turkey Day tomorrow, because I have to cook ALLLLLL DAAAAAYYYY, so I won't have time to write. Anyway, enjoy!**

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**~* Special Thanks *~**

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><p><strong>Eva Sirico: <strong>She'll fit in eventually, but right now I'm still finding a place to stick her. :) As for your weather, it sounds like Boston! Ahh, nostalgia!

**Fireheart Ninja: **I love Clopin Puppet! Isn't it hysterical? Unfortunately, no more Clopin just yet - in a chapter or two, when she gets to the Court of Miracles. I still haven't decided what to have Clopin do when she gets there...Oh well.

**Firestorm N.: **Yeah, that scene was hysterical! And I can imagine him sticking up for someone he doesn't know, considering he's such a gentleman.

**Nostalgia's My Best Friend: **He is pure WIN! Thank you. :D

**Kira Mitchi: **She'll get there...eventually. XD

**Mighty ANT: **Wow, I'm really flattered! Here's your next update *cringe* I hope it's okay! Please tell me what you think!


	5. Chapter 4: Of Guards and Heights

**~Chapter Five: Of Guards and Heights~**

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><p>She was tearing herself from bewildering, tangled dreams when she felt the hand on her shoulder. Somehow, this mingled into the fuzzy layers of sleep that were encasing her mind, and she wondered consciously why she was dreaming about being shaken awake. When she heard her name being called softly, her eyes snapped open, the disdainful green-gold eyes wide and fearful. A soft, dark hand was shaking her shoulder gently, and Amelia rolled over, blinking hard and rubbing her eyes. Esmeralda was crouching over her, those huge green eyes worried and concerned. "Amelia? Amelia, wake up!" Esmeralda whispered. The candles on the walls threw her face into sharp, weird shadow, twisting her dark skin into something far less beautiful and more masked and secretive. Esmeralda looked at the girl, saw the scared, confused look on her face as her hands groped for her violin, and the gypsy's eyes narrowed. The teenaged girl was so possessive of that violin – it was probably expensive, Esmeralda told herself. But there was an odd way about her when she held it, almost as though she could find comfort through the hard, inanimate piece of wood and metal. Shrugging away her thoughts, Esmeralda helped Amelia to her feet. "I want you to meet someone," She whispered, the soft sound stirring the cool layers of silence flooding the cathedral. "He can help us escape."<p>

Amelia was not very clever when she was first woken up, and she said something very intelligent, like "Whozeitamungwhat?" and then shook her head blearily. There were deep circles beneath those regal eyes, and somehow they made her seem colder, more royal, and sharper, despite the slumber-fogged gold discs. Esmeralda led her up the winding stone staircases that surrounded the huge church, and the two women went through a perfect maze of passages, all the while going up farther and farther. When Esmeralda finally hammered open a trapdoor at the very peak of the cathedral, Amelia made the mistake of looking down. She clung reflexively to a wooden pillar, knees locking around the sturdy post, palms breaking out into an instant sweat. Her vision blurred, and for a terrifying second she was scared she might pass out. The floor was very far below her, hard, cruel, and unforgiving – she made the second mistake of thinking what her mangled body would look like, broken and bloodied, on the stone floors. Esmeralda looked at her new friend and furrowed her brows. "Amelia? Are you all right?"

"N-n-no," Amelia whispered, shutting her eyes tightly. Her head was pounding, the blood thumping in her temples. "I'm f-f-frightened of h-heights." She passed her dry tongue over her cracked lips and tried to stop her whole body from shaking, the uncontrollable shivering rattling her teeth. Djali, the goat, rolled his eyes and butted Amelia firmly in the lower back, shoving her away from the sight of the floor and onto the trapdoor ladder. The teen let out a shriek to rattle the heavens, and she found herself being pulled upwards by a large, work-roughened hand on the back of her shirt. She collapsed on the roof, her cheeks slicked with sweat and her long red hair a little mussed, breathing heavily. Esmeralda closed the trapdoor carefully behind her, settling the oaken door into the frame silently, looking far more composed and graceful than the young woman lying on the roof. Djali bleated at Amelia, who sat up and swatted at the animal. The sarcastic, biting retort she was going to brandish at the goat withered in her throat when she saw the person who had saved her.

He was tall, with a narrow waist and gradually broadening shoulders, but his back was misshapen and badly disproportioned, resulting in a hump over his shoulder. His features were blurred and twisted, as though her were a candle left burning too long, with a puffy lump over his eye and a slightly upturned nose. A thatch of red-brown hair hung in his eyes, and he looked ashamed of himself, as if he had done something awful instead of a good deed. His brown eyes were meek and a little frightened, as if he were afraid Amelia might strike out at him or shout at him. Instead, she pushed herself up on her elbows, cocked her head to the side, and had a good, long look. When her thirst for detail was sated, she stood up and brushed her hands off, taking great care not to look at the glittering lights of Paris beneath her. She didn't want to have another embarrassing panic attack like she had a few minutes ago. The hunchback shuffled his feet, and Esmeralda came over, laying a dark hand on his good shoulder. "Amelia, this is Quasimodo. He can help us escape from the Notre Dame – isn't that wonderful?" There was a genuine note of delight in her voice, and Amelia remembered how much a gypsy valued their freedom. Esmeralda's green eyes shone with determination, and Amelia was a little taken aback.

"How? The Archdeacon said there were guards at every entrance. How on earth is he going to get us out of here?" Amelia asked curiously. Esmeralda said nothing, merely looked pointedly at the dizzying drop, punctuated by the leering heads of gargoyles jutting from the shelf of rock. Amelia felt the blood drain from her face. "No." She said hoarsely. "We're not – not going _down, _are we? I mean, th-there's gotta be a better way to get down!"

"You said yourself there are guards at every door," Esmeralda said calmly, gathering Djali in her arms. "Quasi will get us down, I'm sure of it."

"Hello?" Amelia said. "You're just going to throw yourself over the side and hope that he catches you?"

"No," Quasimodo said, speaking for the first time. He had a resolute shine in his eyes as he spoke. "I'm going to carry her. And I'll carry you when I come back, if you want."

Amelia backed up. "Oh, no way, Hosea!" She said. "If you think I'm going to do this, then you got another thing coming!"

"Amelia, relax," Esmeralda said soothingly. "I'll go first, to prove that it's safe. Right, Quasi?"

"Right," Quasimodo said. Amelia shut her eyes tightly as Quasimodo picked up Esmeralda carefully, one brawny arm wrapping around her slender waist. She clung to herself as the odd pair took off from the roof, and she didn't look over the edge, couldn't bring herself to watch them fall if they did so. But instead of hearing a scream drill the night, she head the light, soft sounds of laughter, and then the thick grunts as Quasimodo clambered back up the pillars and statues of Notre Dame. Amelia cracked open one eye as Quasimodo threw himself on the roof, dripping with sweat, grinning from ear to ear. "Come on, it's easy!" He encouraged, a crooked grin lighting his ugly features. Amelia shook her head quickly.

"No, no, no, I think I'll stay here," She said very fast. "I mean, I'm fine here, with the Archdeacon, and the statues, and everything – it's warm, safe, no long falls, nothing except those bells, and I have my violin after all..."

Quasimodo just watched her babble, and then she sighed and buried her face in her hands. "You don't want to stay here all your life," He said eventually. "Believe me."

"Well, that might be the safest option," Amelia said bitterly. "Considering I'll get skewered by a spear if I put one toe outside, I'll fall to my horrifying death if I try and climb down with you, and I'll die of old age if I stay here. So it's a three-way lose – YIPE!"

Quasimodo seized her suddenly around the waist and threw her over his shoulder, then propelled himself off the lip of the roof and began climbing artfully down. Amelia felt her muscles freeze and a scream died to a hoarse wheeze in her throat. She couldn't breathe – the ground was so _very_ far below her. Then everything went black and she felt nothing but a prickle of goose bumps crackling down her spine.

She came to abruptly, her muscles loose and relaxed, leaning up against a wall somewhere. There was a strong, acidic smell in the air, and Esmeralda was tipping some sort of amber liquid into her mouth. Amelia struggled when the potion hit her tongue, and it seared like liquid fire down her throat, causing her to choke and splutter, trying to cough the fiery alcohol back up. The gypsy patted her cheeks and Amelia stood up, her head feeling very light and her belly feeling achingly hot. "What was that?" Amelia spluttered. Esmeralda smiled.

"Brandy. It'll help settle your nerves. Come, we don't have a moment to lose!" Esmeralda said. "We have to leave now, we've wasted enough time already!"

"But wait!" Amelia said, running after the gypsy. "Where's my violin?"

"Djali has it," Esmeralda answered in a whisper. "I've sent him ahead of us. Don't worry, he's a dependable animal."

"I am _not_ going to trust my violin in the hooves of a goat," Amelia snapped. "And are we going anywhere dangerous? It's a miracle that we got off that roof alive, and – mmmph!"

Esmeralda clapped a hand over Amelia's mouth, her green eyes sharp as flint. "There are a few things we both need to know before any of this goes any farther. One – you need to learn when to be quiet. If you have not noticed, there are guards crawling all over the place here, and if you are hanged, I shall never forgive myself. Two – you need to stop worrying about your violin! It is getting wearisome and I am tired of it! Three – and listen very carefully – are you related to royalty in any way, shape, or form? In short, can I trust you?"

"Of course you can trust me!" Amelia said, pouting a little. She felt as though she were five years old. "The only royalty I'm related to is my Uncle Fred, whose supposed to have millions of dollars but we all think he blew it on pot and meth! As for my violin, it's the only thing I have left from my real world, and if you think I'm going to let a _goat_ play with it, you have another thing coming!"

"Wait, what do you mean?" Esmeralda said, her brow darkening. "Your real world...What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm from the future!" Amelia said angrily, perhaps a bit too loudly. "It means that I got dragged into this whole Disney mess because of a malfunctioning TV and video – it means that I have no idea how I got here, what year it is, and what's going on! It means that I'm not from this world! How can I make it any more clear? It means that I miss my real home and that I have no way to get back there! That's what it means!" She was crying now, tears streaking down her freckled cheeks, and she actually stamped her foot a little. Esmeralda looked at her as though she had just sprouted wings.

"How much brandy did I give you?" Esmeralda muttered to herself. Amelia opened her mouth to fire back a scathing retort, but a gloved hand clapped over her mouth and she felt her hands pulled cruelly behind her back.

There was the sound of soldiers, pounding feet, shouts, and the dark shadows melded together. Someone wrapped thick, rough ropes around her wrists and another person stuffed a bitter tasting rag between her teeth. She was shoved out of the alleyway and into the glaring brightness of torchlight, and her ears couldn't distinguish one voice from another. Everything overlapped and melted together, but she could see the helmeted faces of soldiers glaring down at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Esmeralda vanishing in a plume of blue smoke, sending soldiers reeling back, pawing at their streaming eyes.

"Whose this?" One of the soldiers barked.

"She's the girl that was seen talking to the gypsy! Bring her to Judge Frollo – she might know where the gypsy went!" Another voice growled.

"Take her to the Palace of Justice!" Shouted yet another voice.

Amelia tried to shriek through the gag, but it was no use. She thrashed and put up as large a struggle as she could, but she was small and the soldiers were big. Torchlight flamed in her eyes, and she found herself face-to-face with the blonde captain who had given her directions earlier. There was sympathy and firmness in his blue eyes, and he straightened. "This isn't the same girl!" He shouted over the hubbub.

"Don't be stupid, Phoebus, of course she is!" One of the first voices snarled.

"I am your captain, and you will address me as such," Phoebus said in a low, dangerous voice. The mob quieted down. "I know this girl. I saw her earlier today. She's lost – aren't you, little one?" He pried the gag from between her teeth, and she rotated her jaw a few times, then began speaking at top speed.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about, I've never seen a gypsy in my life, I was only in the church because some guy told me it would be safe there for a while, I swear I haven't seen any gypsies or whatever, please don't bring me to Judge Frollo or the Justice Palace or whatever, and please don't give me twenty lashes, I have a really low pain threshold, and if you would just let me go get my violin, I'll be out of your hair, honest!"

She said all of this very fast.

This, naturally, was greeted by a moment of stunned silence, then Captain Phoebus spoke up. "Our orders are to get the gypsy girl, not go drag every lost woman over to Frollo and waste his time. Release her!" He ordered. Nobody moved, and then Phoebus lifted his hand as if to strike the nearest soldier. Hastily, the soldier leapt forward and sliced the bonds from Amelia's wrists. Phoebus let his hand drop to his side, and then pinned the soldiers to the ground with his gaze. "Now, leave," He said to Amelia, and the redhead took off down the street like a shot.

She ran without looking where she was going, heedlessly throwing herself through puddles and snowbanks, around abandoned carts and corners recklessly. Somewhere along the way, she lost both her socks, and the frigid water began to numb her already frozen feet and toes, making her aching feet lance with pain every time she stepped on the cold, gritty cobblestones. It was almost totally black in the alleyways of Paris, the night punctured by the glowing red embers of barrel fires, and her frenzied eyes briefly caught glimpses of homeless men and women crowded around guttering fires, warming their chapped hands and smoking pipes. Above her, the cold stars twinkled and grinned at her, forming constellations she knew but couldn't identify, the frosty navy sky jeweled with millions of stars. Tears blinded her vision, and a ragged sob tore from her throat when she took yet another corner, and the cobblestones ended, leaving her on a rough dirt road that were paved with sharp rocks that cut into her feet. She could actually feel her frozen feet bleeding, but the pain was slow and thick to her cold-addled brain. Her tears were forming a frosty, glittering mask on her cheeks, and she rammed straight into a wrought iron fence, bruising her arms and left cheek in the process. She winced and put a hand to her face, feeling the icy tears, the red welt, and began to cry again.

Everything was going wrong.

Her fingers stuck to the iron gates for a brief moment, and she pulled hastily away, the hinges opening with a rusty squeal of pain. Shadows leaped and grinned ghoulishly from behind every available surface, the silvery moon striping the ground in weird shapes. Curved tombstones, some broken, some intact, jutted from the steely ground like rounded teeth from a hideous maw. A bent old tree was sagging crazily against the fence, bringing down a section of it as it leaned backwards, the long black fingers tearing the sky to ribbons behind it. An old wooden shack was disintegrating into the ground, and Amelia's green-gold eyes fogged over a little. She sank to her knees in front of a slab of stone, odd runes and designs covering the front of it. But she was so _cold_, and her body ached so very much...

The last thing she remembered was the sharp smell of basil filling her nostrils and a pair of familiar black eyes looking at her.

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><p><strong>AN: WOW. That was the worst chapter I have written in a long time. I am really, really sorry, but I want to finish this story, and I guess my haste embedded itself into my words. I'm really sorry about that, but I don't feel like rewriting it right now. If you tell me that I should rewrite it, then I will. Okay? Okay. **

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><p><strong>~Special Thanks~<strong>

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><p><strong>Firestorm N.: <strong>Aloha as well! "Court of Miracles" is actually my dishwashing song! I have a whole playlist of music I like to listen to while I do the dishes, and the kids think I'm so crazy when I sing it! That song is definitely the best song in the movie! Hah! I'm not nuts!

**Fireheart Ninja: **Yeah, "Do You Hear What I Hear" is beautiful, but a little weird all the same. It never made sense to me, but when you get the right person to sing it, it's PERFECT. I'm glad you're liking the story! Please review and tell me what you think! *wince*

**sarah0406: **Yeah, Esmeralda will get the hang of talking to her eventually – but it's Disney, and things like that are usually glossed over a little. Isn't it funny how almost every Disney Princess is a Mary Sue, yet we all adore them?

**wolves-song: **Awww, you're so sweet! Thank you so much for leaving a review – they truly make my day. I hope you continue to enjoy this story and Amelia as well. Her character is developing, but not the way I intended. She's sort of like every teenage girl I know – a little crazy, a little silly, a little mature, and a little hysterical. I'm glad you can relate to her, and you have NO IDEA how relieved I am to hear you say she's not a MS! I've been having a real problem with that lately, so thank you very much!

**Kira Michi: **You got your wish! Clopin will be in the next chapter, I promise! Don't worry, I won't abandon this story – Amelia and Clopin haven't hooked up yet! Which they totally have to do! Like, pronto!

**Mighty-ANT: **Yes, quality over quantity – unfortunately, this quality is pretty shoddy, although it is a bit longer. Please be gentle when you beat me over the head with a large rusty stick. I'll rewrite it when I have the energy, I promise.

**Nostalgia's My Best Friend: **Honey, I'm the mother of three kids and the wife of a busy lawyer. If I don't cook, nobody will. Although, I'm still working on my pies...they never come out right. The turkey was a huge success though; I brined it the day before, so it was really good. We have relatives over – my family, not James's, thank goodness – so it was LOUD and pretty intoxicated later in the evening. But eventually, they all sobered up and went home, so there were plenty of memories made. How was your Thanksgiving? xD

**inkwolf1: **I'm glad you like it!

**Fickle'Fan'Girl: **Ahh! I'm glad you like Amelia – I was planning on making her a lot more sassy and outgoing, but somehow this attitude seems to fit her a little better. I'm working on finding a good picture of a redhead playing the violin, but none of them seem to capture her eyes – those eyes are her identifying mark, after all. I'm sorry this chapter was so poor – tell me what you think of it anyway


	6. Chapter 5: Of Warmth and Interrogation

**~Chapter Six: Of Warmth and Interrogation~**

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><p>The girl he had seen so briefly yesterday was lying prone in his hammock, swathed in thick blankets, a hot, damp cloth over her forehead. Her red hair hung in sweaty tangles around her neck and shoulders, the usually bone-straight fiery hair messy and knotted. She had a mild fever and Rosa – a motherly, domestic woman who had practically raised every orphan passing through – said that that the girl was just chilled and exhausted. The girl's violin lay innocuously next to her, the odd black case scuffed and dented, no doubt from being dragged around Paris so roughly and uncouthly. The violin inside looked relatively undamaged, except for the odd dried splatter of mud here and there, but the Gypsy King didn't want to touch the precious instrument. He didn't even want to <em>breathe<em> on it. He had never seen such a finely crafted thing, delicate and curved in all the right places, and the bow was a long, straight, polished thing. And Clopin knew all too well what happened to gypsies seen touching expensive things – whether the item in question went missing or not, they usually were punished for handling a precious thing with their so-called "filthy hands". Clopin glanced at the girl again, and his gaze hardened. He had exchanged five sentences with the girl – perhaps less! She hadn't seemed too averse to him when they were speaking in the street, but it didn't change the fact that she might be royalty. There was no possible way a woman could be wandering around with such a fine, beautiful instrument and in such strange clothing without being related to someone with money. What business did he have bringing her here, to the Court of Miracles, in his own caravan, no less? "I couldn't just let her freeze," He said aloud, his jaw locking.

"Of course you couldn't, Clopin," said Rosa from behind him. She came bustling in with a bowl of thin, steaming soup. It was pitifully thin, with only a few lumps of stringy chicken to supplement the old vegetables and hot broth. The plump, motherly old woman sat down on a chair and leaned over the girl, checking her pulse with a painted finger. "You did the right thing, _chere_, in bringing her here. Although –" Here she shot a sly glance to her King, "- you didn't have to put her in _your_ caravan. There were plenty of other caravans close to the entrance."

Clopin did not answer, merely rolled his eyes and expelled an angry breath between his teeth. Rosa had practically raised him, bringing him up through the gutter until he could assume the burdening leadership position that entailed into being the King of Gypsies. And in doing so, he viewed her as a mother, and she saw him as a son – by default, she was trying to marry him off to every available girl that sashayed past. "She is a pretty girl, no?" Rosa sang happily, bending over and replacing the cooling cloth on Amelia's forehead with another, warmer, one.

He gave the girl a cursory glance – there was nothing to suggest beauty, except those for those eyes, those proud, haughty, lazy eyes. She was not a skinny girl – she had a decent amount of flesh on her bones – but she couldn't exactly be labeled as plump. Just a sort of in between stage, too slender to be fat, too plump to be lean, the same way she was of middle height. In short, she was _average_ – decent looks, figure, and stance, but those eyes, _God_, those eyes, they were exceptional. He took great care to be sure that none of these emotions flickered on his face, so he merely checked his gloved hand and shrugged in an offhand way. "Mm, I suppose," He said casually. "Good enough for some _gadje_ to marry, eh?"

Rosa clucked sympathetically. "Ah! She's too young for marriage to a _gadje_ – but she's not too young for a gypsy, eh, Clopin?" She had that cunning look in her dark green eyes, and Clopin waved his hands exasperatedly.

"Enough with your meddling, woman! I am a bachelor, and I shall remain so until I find a good sensible _gypsy_ girl to tempt my interests. This, this, little pale whelp means nothing to me, nothing except that she might be a spy! I should have let her freeze!" Clopin said, more angry at himself for allowing Rosa to work him up so much. Rose ignored his outburst and studied the girl.

"Oh, Clopin, she is not a spy! Look at her little face – she is an _minette_, no? A pussycat. A kitten with no claws." Rosa said sweetly, trying to get Clopin to look at Amelia again. He stared determinedly at the opposite wall.

"Even kittens have claws," He retorted, although the vehemence had dropped from his tone. "More than that, though, kittens can yowl for their mamas. I do not want a troop of soldiers bursting in on us when we least expect it."

"Pssh," Rosa said, shaking her head. "You think everyone is a spy! Am I a spy? Mm?"

Clopin took off his hat and tossed it onto a peg near the door, running his hands through his jaw-length black hair. "You are Rosa," He said simply. "You are also a gypsy. I trust no _gadje_, you know that."

"I am Rosa, a woman who has been married for twenty five years! Ah! And you are Clopin, my King, King of the Gypsies! And you are not married. Why is this?" Rosa coaxed. "Come, come, Clopin, you cannot hide much from me."

"Rosa," Clopin said wearily, "I did not bring you here to pick apart my love life like a fox picking out shells from an egg. I brought you here to tend to the girl, which you have _not_ been doing. Now, could you please give her the soup and then send her away?"

"Pssh," Rosa said, and then peeled off the warm cloth from Amelia's forehead. "_Mon chere_, it's time to wake up," She said softly, shaking Amelia's shoulder. "Come, _mon_ _chere_, I have a bowl of soup waiting for you."

Amelia was webbed in thick, snarling black roots that were tethering her to mortality, and each black root was slippery, wet, and ice cold. Her whole body was cold. There was no alleviation to the cold, save for a hot strip of heat somewhere near her eyes, but this didn't penetrate the icy chill rocking her body. Somewhere, high, high above her, she heard a voice. Was it an angel? An angel of death, come to free her from these frosty bonds? If it was, he was decidedly late – she had been freezing for eternity. She was almost cross with the angel of death, except that there was the elusive smell of basil, and somehow that was important. Her numb, fuzzy brain slowly defrosted, and the angel of death took on a hazy face and figure. Amelia blinked several times, feeling as though jaws of steel were keeping her eyes closed. Slowly, a curtain of mist lifted from her eyes, accompanied by a clearer, sharper focus. The angel of death was rather heavy-set, with black hair tied back in a braid and a wide, strong build. Beads and rings decorated her wrists and fingers, along with several pendants dangling in the ample void of her cleavage. A colorful bandanna kept a fringe of wild dark hair out of dark green eyes, and there were lines around her mouth, which gave her an older, sturdy, domestic look. She smiled a little, and Amelia took great comfort in that smile. "Ah, I see our little guest has awakened! Come, I have soup." The woman said, and reached for a bowl of something hot, out of Amelia's line of vision. It would have taken all of her strength to just turn her head, and she was afraid she might pass out again in that one simple action.

As the hot broth was brought to her lips, she caught sight of a familiar stance in the corner. It was the gypsy who had returned her violin and then drawn the guards away! He was leaning casually against the wall of ... wherever this was, looking calmly at the floor and examining his fingers. The sharp, crisp smell of basil suddenly teased her nose, and she frowned as she sipped at the soup. It wasn't emanating from the rather pathetic tasting broth she was eating, but rather from something else. It took several moments for her still-frozen mind to connect the scent of basil with the aloof gypsy in the corner, and even then she still didn't see why this was important. But the more soup she had – her taste buds were wearing down, for it was mostly hot water with some chewy chicken added – she more this seemed important. _Oh! Right, he saved my life. And I didn't thank him. Oh, well, no biggie._ She thought to herself, eating more soup. When she had sufficient blood in her brain, she realized what she was thinking was totally insensitive. _I am a gigantic insensitive wart,_ she scolded herself. _I need to thank him. How do you thank someone who saved your life? A card? A hug? If I hug him, I might throw up. And I'm not writing cards. My handwriting sucks. I really should have listened to Mom and practiced my handwriting more. But I was too busy practicing – Oh, God! My violin! Why do I never think of that until the last minute?_

"My violin!" She burst out suddenly. Rosa looked at her, arching a delicate eyebrow. Amelia struggled a little, trying to get some blood and feeling in her numb limbs, and Rosa pressed a firm hand against Amelia's chest.

"Do not get up," Rosa warned. "Or I shall hit you with my rolling pin and make you fall asleep again. Your pretty toy is very safe. See? It's right here."

"Oh, okay," Amelia said, sinking back into the hammock when she saw the familiar sight of her rosy instrument. The shape in the shadows stirred, and Amelia turned her gaze – with difficulty – to the gypsy, who was looking at her incredulously.

"Ah, it must be nice to first think of a toy when you wake," Clopin said with a wintery bite of sarcasm in his words. "Instead of family, or friends, you think of an instrument. How nice."

"I think of family and friends!" Amelia said indignantly. "And that violin is not a _toy_. Why does everyone call it that? Do you have any idea how expensive that is? It cost me almost fifteen hundred dollars to buy that, and I'm still paying it off!" Her voice was hoarse and raspy from exhaustion, making her words less powerful and not nearly as stinging as she wished them to be. Clopin eyed her, his dark, restless eyes narrowing. _He has really remarkable eyes,_ she thought to herself, on a completely different note. _Like blackbirds or ravens flying from a tree branch. They don't stay in one place very long._

"Mm," Clopin said easily, his dark eyes flickering. "Paying that much for an instrument must be easy for you, considering your status." Hah! Now he would watch her squirm and stutter when she tried to deny her royal lineage.

But, instead of squirming and stuttering, Amelia blinked her disdainful eyes and tried to make sense of this. "My...status..." She said slowly. "Oh, God, I'm not a vampire, am I?" She said, panicking.

"No, _chere_, you are not a vampire," Rosa soothed, trying to hide the fact that she was vastly amused by this entire exchange. Amelia sank back into the large hammock.

"Good, because I am _not_ turning into Bella Swann." She said. Clopin raised his eyebrows and slapped his hands together briskly.

"Well, it's easy to see that this girl has lost her mind," Clopin said matter-of-factly. "I shall be leaving you now." He went to the door and snatched his hat from the peg, slamming it on his head. He got two steps out the door before he realized that he was leaving his own caravan. He turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him, going back over to sulk in the corner. Rosa was shaking with silent giggles.

"I have not lost my mind!" Amelia said hoarsely. "I am a perfectly sane person, other than talking to myself a bit. And since when have you been so mean? It was 'mademoiselle' and 'madam' when you returned my violin, but now you're calling me selfish and crazy!"

"You have met this girl before?" Rosa asked, wiping tears of suppressed mirth from her eyes, shaking with laughter and making her beads rattle. Clopin made a scrunched, frustrated face, and shook a finger in Amelia's face.

"That was different! Now you turn up at my doorstep, frozen and knowing things you shouldn't! How did you find this place, eh?" Clopin demanded. Amelia rubbed her eyes hard and tried to sit up a little, with limited success. Rosa was laughing too hard to tell her otherwise.

"You told me to take sanctuary in the Notre Dame," Amelia said slowly. "And I did, and I met this gypsy lady and her goat, and then this hunchback forced me to leave, well, okay, not really forced, but it was _really_ high up, and I fainted or something, and then there were these guards, and then this blonde guy let me go, and I was running, and I got _so cold_, and then I ended up here."

"Obviously, you have not changed since I last saw you," Clopin said evenly. "You still make no sense."

"I do make sense!" Amelia rasped. "Well, not to some people, but I make perfect sense to me!"

She then executed the most perfect, adorable pout that Clopin had ever seen in his life.

He cocked his head to the side, watching her upset face and remarkable eyes, and then couldn't quell the little laugh that rumbled from his chest. She looked up at him and pouted a little more. "You're laughing at me." She said.

Rosa was now burying her face in her hands to try and keep from laughing too hard, and she patted Amelia's hand kindly. "Ah, _mademoiselle_, he is not laughing at you, he is trying to be serious." Rosa said. Amelia closed her eyes and let her forearm fall across her eyes.

"Yup, that's what we do where I come from. When we're trying to be serious, we laugh. Good policy. What do you do when you're happy, cry?" Amelia asked drily, massaging her sore throat with her free hand. Rosa flapped a hand at the two of them and stood up, gathering the soup bowl in her hand.

"Clopin, tell her you are a happy, cheerful man and that you are not usually this serious," Rosa coaxed.

"I am a happy, cheerful man." Clopin said unenthusiastically, setting his jaw. Rosa swatted him.

"_Chere_, do not mind him. Clopin, I am sure you have kingly duties to do, right?" Rosa said. Clopin stood up and pulled his hat back on his head, shooting a furtive glance towards Amelia, who was trying to work out whole 'kingly' business.

"_Oui_, I do have things to do with my subjects," Clopin said importantly, and swept out of the room.

"He only says 'subjects' when he's trying to impress someone," Rosa assured her. "You have natural charms, _mademoiselle_. Keep going like this, our King will fall for you eventually, _chere_!"

"Wait, what?" Amelia spluttered. "I don't want to – I mean, I don't have – fall for me? Natural charm – wait, I'm not trying to – he's a king?"

"_Oui_," Rosa said slyly, exiting the room. "And a handsome king, no?"

Amelia pondered this for a long time, wondering what Rosa meant. Then, when Rosa was half a mile away and gossiping about the newcomer with her friends, Amelia spoke aloud in the silence of the caravan.

"I have natural charms?"

She shrugged and settled back against the pillows, closing her eyes. "Who would've thought that?"

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><p><strong>AN: I feel marginally better about this chapter! I watched 'Court of Miracles' – watched it, not listened to it – and I decided that Clopin has a darker sense of humor than usually portrayed. And plus, I think he's cute when he blushes. xD **

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><p><strong>~Special Thanks~<strong>

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><p><strong>Kira michi: <strong>I'm glad you like it! And I don't abandon stories if they garner a lot of attention – I try to give my fans what they want. For instance, I'm continuing one of my series because I have seventy people begging me to. O.o Anyway, enough of my ramblings, tell me what you think of this chapter!

**Fickle'Fan'Girl: **Esmeralda's quote had me totally cracking up while I wrote it. I got some very strange looks from my husband's parakeets, but I'm glad you liked it as well. YOU DRINK TEA? Yay, I'm not the only person in the world who enjoys tea! Except the British, of course. Are you British?

**Firestorm N.: **Awwww, thank you Firestorm! I'm glad you liked the last chapter. Personally, I'm very picky about my chapters, and I just DIE of embarrassment whenever someone calls me out on it. :/

**sarah0406: **Yeah...Esmeralda is a cool Disney Princess, along with Mulan. Both are realistic and fun. Snow White, Cinderella, and Jasmine are some of the princesses I can't STAND. Oh well. Enjoy!

**Galimatias: **I hope I spelled your name correctly...Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying my story!

**Eskimo-Otter: **I am both amazingly pleased and embarrassed of your praise! I'm so grateful – it's reviews like that which make me keep going and really take heart in my work. I'm glad you like Amelia – I'm coming to like her as well, although I had my doubts about her in the beginning. Please review again, and don't hesitate to tell me if someone seems OOC or Amelia does something too Mary-Sue-ish.

**Nostalgia's My Best Friend: **Yeah...My family is usually pretty good. Loud, though, when they really get going. James is from a family of all snooty lawyer types, and my nieces and nephews are very...Eh...what's the word? Aloof. Sort of like my cat. Why am I burdening you with this information? Yech. I don't know. Enjoy the chapter!

**Mighty-ANT: **Wow, you didn't beat me over a head with a rusty stick! Personally, I would've. ._. I know, the meeting between Quasimodo and Amelia was completely ridiculous, but I despise going back and rewriting chapters. I might revamp it once it's done, make the overall story a little sleeker and more professional sounding. Anyway, enjoy!


	7. Chapter 6: Of Bands and Burning

**~Chapter Six: Of Bands and Burning~**

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><p>She combed her damp hair out of her eyes and looked at herself in the dull mirror, cocking her head to the side slightly. Rosa had given her a wash basin, soap, and a comb, so Amelia tried to make the best of it, scrubbing her cheeks pink and brushing the snarls from her hair. When she was finished, she could count the freckles on her cheeks once more and her red hair hung in a long sheet of fiery crimson down her back. Although neither of them helped her looks, she felt cleaner and brighter, and the headache which had been previously fogging her mind had melted, along with the dusky twilight. After she felt more like a person and less like a mud puddle, she scraped her hands down her legs and wrinkled her nose. There was several days worth of growth on her calves and thighs, and they felt like spikes beneath her soft palms. She made a face, and then mentally noted to ask Rosa discreetly for a razor. In the meantime, she would change into the colorful clothing Rosa had left on the hammock, but as she turned, she almost changed her mind. The clothing was...well, weird. She had never worn a corset before, and she wasn't even sure she knew how to lace one up, never mind breathe in one. Also, she despised skirts. They made her feel exposed and silly, as though she were pretending. The thing she appreciated most was the green bandanna which would keep her fringe of red hair out of her eyes, but what to do about the rest of it? Amelia glanced towards the door, and hastily stripped, piling her muddy, worn clothes on the hammock and pulled on the undergarments hurriedly. The underwear was more like breeches, as though she were wearing some kind of shorts beneath her skirt, and she decided she preferred these to normal underwear. There was no bra – evidently the corset was meant to be put over the blouse, and sort of give support. Amelia gave it a dubious look.<p>

With the underwear and skirt out of the way, she tugged on the white peasant-sleeved blouse quickly, shivering in the cool draft. All of the clothes were clean, but the skirt was mended in three places and the blouse had the unmistakable feel of being worn thoroughly before this. Shrugging, Amelia tucked the blouse into her green skirt and then eyed the purple corset. Now came the real test – how do you put one of these things on? There were two small buckles and what seemed like miles of ribbon, and after a bit of finagling, managed to pull it up over her hips and adjust it around her midsection. She assumed the laces went in back, judging from all the pictures she had seen, and after an awkward bit of meddling, she snapped both buckles and reached behind herself to tie to corset shut. As she pulled, she saw inches fall off her waistline, but also the air in her lungs decreased at an alarming rate. So, instead of yanking it tightly and sealing off her oxygen, she tied it loosely at the small of her back, and then examined herself in the mirror. In her opinion, she looked like a girl playing dress-up for Halloween, but that was besides the point. She was clean, fed, and her violin was in safe hands. _Remember, it's the inside that counts. Oh, to hell with that, I look like an idiot! Why, why, WHY do I have to have Dad's butt? You could land a plane on that rear, girl! And this corset _itches_. _Growling to herself, and scratching surreptitiously along the rim of her new corset, she left the brightly painted caravan. What she saw caused her to freeze and stare at the display before her, jaw loose, her haughty eyes flaring with surprise.

Caravans and tents of all shapes and sizes were lined along the walls, keeping an avenue between the strip of dwellings, and it was in this empty space where small children played and laughed. Dashes of color striped her vision, echoing from everywhere – ribbons were wound around the spokes of the wagon wheels, hand-painted toys were being played with in the street, and everything was in bright, joyful colors. Music stirred the cool, chilly air of the cave, and her practiced ear picked up on the notes, identifying them almost lazily as she stood in awe of the huge cavern. Women were gathered around a lopsided table, laughing and weaving together masses of material into some sort of quilt, and people were constantly arriving and departing, leaving through a huge black hole that gaped on the near wall. An invisible draft stirred her skin, and she shivered unconsciously as her eyes drank in the bright, moving colors. She almost didn't know where to go, but the weight of her violin case in her hands seemed to draw her over to where three older gypsies were playing on crude instruments, coaxing simplistic tunes from battered items. She listened for a moment, the notes patterning in her brain, and when the song finished she offered a little smile. The gypsies were of similar height and build, although one had a full beard, the other a goatee, and the third was clean shaven. The full bearded one smiled and beckoned her over. "So! You're the _mademoiselle_ Clopin plucked from the snowbank, eh?" He said, his voice booming and rich, deep as a gong.

"Not really from a snowbank," Amelia protested. "I was just cold. Anyway, uh, I enjoyed your song." She felt the silent eyes of the other two gypsies trace down her body until they saw the odd black case in her hands. The bearded one laughed and slapped his knee.

"You hear that, _monsieurs? _She enjoyed our little ditty!" The bearded one laughed again and Amelia tried to ignore the suspicious glare of the other two gypsies who seemed cold and rather frosty. The older man pointed to a crate, and Amelia took a seat hesitantly. "Our King says you can play music with that little black box of yours. Can you?" The bearded man asked. Amelia raised her eyebrows.

"Your king lied," She said bluntly. "I can't play music with the box, but I can play music with this." She unclasped the brass snaps and withdrew her rose-colored violin, along with the bow, and lay it carefully on her lap. The other two gypsies, who had previously been rather standoffish, leaned forward and the clean-shaven one raised his eyebrows.

"Where did you get this, _mademoiselle_?" He asked with a definite note of wistfulness in his tone. "It is a beautiful instrument."

"Thanks, and I got it from a friend," Amelia said. After her episode with Esmeralda, the last thing she wanted to explain was purchasing her violin from Clark's Music Store. The man with the goatee tried not to look impressed, but he kept his black eyes on the violin as the bearded man took it gently from Amelia's hands. Amelia resisted the urge to warn him to be careful with it, because his touch seemed light and gentle, but it was a knee-jerk response. Instead, she waited until the older gypsy had examined every inch of the rosy wood.

"You are a lucky girl, _mademoiselle_," The bearded gypsy said. Then, he raised both eyebrows and laughed again, a deep peal that sounded from his chest like a bell. "Forgive us – I am Harman, and this is my son, Nicu." He gestured to the young, clean-shaven man, and the man with the goatee scowled. "And this unhappy fellow is Raman, a sour man who likes to play a cello, when he can find one."

"You're a cellist?" Amelia said, perking up. "Have you ever played with a violin before? They go really well together."

Raman looked marginally mollified when asked about his instrument, and shrugged. "Violinists are scarce as hen's teeth," He said idly, as an explanation. Amelia raised her eyebrows.

"You have a violinist sitting in front of you," She reminded him. "Come on, show me your cello. Teach me a song to play."

Reluctantly, the gypsy withdrew his cello. It was a large instrument, hewn from dark wood, and even though the edges were sanded finely, it couldn't compare to the commercial glow and luster of Amelia's violin. Nevertheless, his fingers began to find a melody on the strings, drawing the slender bow across the delicate edges. The sound was slow and artificial, with more than a taste of flat in it, but Amelia ignored this and cracked her knuckles, resting her violin against her neck and tucking it under her chin. The two sounds blended together, mixing and twining like the elaborate quilt the women were making not too far off. Nicu began rapping a beat on his drum, a slow, decisive pat-pat-thud, and Harman jingled his tambourine, the metal clinking together in a rasping melody. The sounds swirled together, and Amelia struggled to keep her eyes on Raman's fingers, trying to anticipate what chords would come next, where the bridges melted into one another, and how he adjusted the instrument between his feet to accompany her syrupy sounding violin. After only a few minutes, she gave up, laughing. "That's enough," She said with a smile. "I don't know your songs."

"Then play us a song, _chere,_" Nicu said, who seemed quite taken with Amelia's violin. She shrugged and blushed a little, but she could never pass up a chance to perform. It was why she chose the violin – it was an instrument everyone knew and liked, and also, people hired violinists a lot. She loved to perform, albeit with the support of an orchestra behind her. After a moment, she broke into a finger-blistering version of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", her fingers flicking over the strings. It was a special song to her, not only because her sped-up version was incredibly hard to play, but because her former violin teacher had passed away recently and he had taught her how to play the original version. Her former violin teacher, Mr. Gazpacho, had been a fiddler, not a violinist – he had been constantly trying to get her to convert as well, but she stubbornly insisted in playing in an orchestra instead of a band. She was halfway through the second verse when Nicu began tapping his drum, a fast, constant pat-pat-rap, and Raman began to try and keep up with her ever-changing chords. Bewilderingly, he had gotten the hang of the song in just a few minutes, and before the song was over Raman was keeping up with her perfectly. Amelia put the violin down after her final dramatic saw across the strings, and wiped the sweat from her brow.

"Wow! You guys are amazing!" She said, looking mostly at Raman. "That took me almost six months to learn, and you mastered it in a couple of minutes. How do you do that?"

Raman had lost his icy exterior when she complimented him – he must have picked up on the genuine tone in her voice. "Ah, _mademoiselle_, when you have nothing to do on a winter's eve, you tend to listen to music, no?" Raman said, a rare smile breaking out under his goatee and moustache. "That violin of yours sounds very nice," Raman said, eyeing the violin.

"_Oui_, it does." Said a crisp, familiar voice from a few feet away. Amelia looked up to see the beautiful, exotic Esmeralda standing there, smelling decisively of smoke, her face drawn and tired. Next to her, his dark eyes amused, was Clopin, dressed in his fantastic street outfit, with the mishmash of colors and fabrics.

"Esmeralda!" Amelia said, standing up. She hugged the gypsy clumsily, taking care not to accidentally poke her with the end of her violin. Esmeralda looked at her friend with raised eyebrows, taking in her gypsy outfit. Without turning to her King, she said, "Clopin, you said you rescued a crazy girl, you did not say you dressed her in my old clothes."

Clopin scowled instantly, and Amelia opened her mouth to apologize for wearing Esmeralda's clothes, but Clopin overrode her first. "That would be Rosa's doing," He said. "Somehow, in my confusion, I put her in my own caravan, and now Rosa thinks I have saved the girl's life and she owes me a debt of gratitude."

"I don't owe you squat," Amelia said, her voice slightly irritated, "After your insults last night. I mean, calling me crazy? Come on!"

"Well, you are," Esmeralda and Clopin said together. Amelia pouted again, and Clopin laughed. She really was adorable when she pouted, that little lower lip dropping so attractively.

"I am _not_! Just because I talk to myself, it doesn't mean I'm crazy." She said, and was then struck by inspiration. "_You're_ just jealous because the voices talk to me and not to you."

The joke took the tension out of the air and everybody laughed. Djali, Esmeralda's crabby goat, peeked his head from behind Esmeralda's skirts, and Amelia made a face at him. Esmeralda smiled a little, and then turned to Clopin. "Come, I have something to tell you." She said, and then caught Amelia's hopeful look. The gypsy woman sighed. "You too, Amelia. This is your concern as well."

Amelia slipped her violin back in her case and turned to Harman. "Could you watch my violin for a minute? I – um, Esmeralda and Clopin want me to go somewhere."

"By all means, _chere_!" Harman said, and then winked. "I cannot promise it will be here when you return, though!"

Amelia laughed, and then stopped abruptly, glaring at Harman. "Haha...Not funny."

She dodged after Clopin and Esmeralda, almost tripping over her long skirt, and almost ran right into Clopin. An unexpected little 'oomph' of surprise was bumped from her mouth, and she almost fell flat on her face. Before she could fall completely, however, she felt Clopin's restless hands snatch her wrist and haul her upright. She caught her center of balance and was face-to-face with Clopin's dark eyes and pointed goatee, feeling uncharacteristically shy. He arched a disparaging eyebrow. "Still clumsy," He commented, and Esmeralda smiled tightly. Amelia brushed herself off, ignoring the heated patches on her arms where his warm gloves had connected with her bare skin. There was a peculiar tingle there, but she bypassed it, focusing instead on Esmeralda's tired, drawn face and knotted brow. When the trio was safely wedged between two closely parked caravans, Esmeralda turned to them.

"Clopin, we need to post extra guards," She said wearily, her emerald green eyes gauzy with pain and exhaustion. "Frollo is searching through all of Paris to find me and Amelia."

"Why?" Amelia said. She had been in a lot of places before – but mortal danger wasn't one of them. "I didn't do anything!"

"You were with me in the Notre Dame cathedral," Esmeralda explained. She looked at Clopin, whose face had taken on a dark, passionate face and jaw had locked. "Clopin, he's burning all of Paris down to get to me."

Amelia felt the words ripple over her with the feeling of an icy wave trickle down her back. Sweat broke out over her body, and she paled. The man, Judge Frollo, the old man with gray hair who had accosted her in the church, was burning down Paris to look for her? For Esmeralda? Her hands shook badly, and her face went even whiter. Clopin ignored the trembling girl and tilted Esmeralda's chin back. "Esmeralda, _mon ange_, where have you been?" He asked, looking at her singed clothes and ash-streaked wrists. The gypsy woman shrugged.

"Some of Frollo's men burned down the bakery where I took shelter for the night. I had to find Maurice in the ashes. Frollo killed his wife, Belle." Her words were dead, flat, and empty. Clopin embraced the younger gypsy tightly, feeling a tight, compressed ball of anger blooming in his chest. His gloved hands tightened around her, and she backed up, wiping her eyes. A little bubble of choked laughter swam up her blocked throat, and Clopin cocked his head to one side. "Your sweetheart fainted, I think." Esmeralda said, pointing. Djali was sniffing dubiously at Amelia's pale, still form. Clopin muttered a string of imaginative curses, and swung Amelia over his shoulder, her red hair spilling onto his collar. Esmeralda caught one word as the Gypsy-King carted the girl back to his caravan:

"Useless."

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><p><strong>AN: Again, bad chapter. Ugh. Muse is trying to hold onto life. Please review, and bring him back! 8) **

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><p><strong>~Special Thanks~<strong>

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><p><strong>Firestorm N. <strong>I have no idea what Le Suilion means, but whatever it is, the same to you! Yes, I drink tea. I prefer Tetley British Blend, although I'll drink Lipton and Salada if I have to. You're not from the UK? Wow. I thought you were. Cool. I'm from Boston originally, but I've moved around quite a bit in the US. Anyway, I loved the last chapter! It was so much fun to write about Clopin. But this chapter is pathetic, even I'll admit that. 8/

**Mighty ANT: **LOL! I update quickly because I have about two hours to myself every night after the kids are asleep. When you're a former secretary, you can get a lot of typing done in a short amount of time. Ergo, the quick updates. 8)

**Kira michi: **Yeah, I love Rosa! She's actually based off a tollbooth operator who I happen to have a deep friendship with, and she's always trying to marry her son off to various people. So, yeah, that's who she's from.

**sarah0406: **When you put it like that, you're right, the topics do sort of seem random, but somehow connected...O.o I see the DaVinci Code flashing before my eyes...

**Nostalgia's My Best Friend: **No, I'm not an author. Other than on here, lol. I've been working on a science fiction novel for almost ten years, but I can't seem to get it down on paper. It's rather elusive. But it means a lot to me that you think that. 8) tell me what you think of this update!

**Fickle'Fan'Girl:** Aww, thank you! I'm glad you like Amelia. You're ALASKAN? Wow! Do you live in Alaska, or did you formerly? What's it like? Are the summers really difficult to manage? Seeing how the sun never sets and everything. Wow! I'm so excited! I have someone reading my fanfiction in ALASKA! Cool! 8D


	8. Chapter 7: Of Children and Fires

**~Chapter Seven: Of Children and Fires~**

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><p>Amelia learned quickly that it's never truly silent in the Court of Miracles – gypsies stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, drinking, laughing, cracking stories, or getting married. There was always a party going on somewhere, and ergo, there was always raucous noise and booming laughter. She sat up abruptly in bed, wide awake, wakened not by the laughter outside, but by the small creak of the door closing. Her long red hair was rumpled and her cheeks were still rather pale, but her haughty eyes narrowed in an out-of-place expression of confusion as she looked around for the source of the noise. Shadows shrouded the caravan, beaten into soft submission by the gentle flicker of a long, creamy white candle standing near her feet, and she scrubbed at her eyes, wondering where she had heard that noise. Swinging her feet out of bed, she stepped gingerly across the floors, wincing at the rattling squeaks that sounded like dying mice beneath her feet. As she opened the door, she got a whiff of basil and paused, sniffing her shoulder. She had been sleeping in Clopin's bed for two nights, and now she smelled like him, or maybe his blankets smelled like him. <em>Ew,<em> she thought to herself, wrinkling her nose. _I've been sleeping in the exact same spot where Clopin has been sleeping. It's like we're sleeping together, only we're not. Oh my God, not _sleeping_ sleeping together. GROSS. Okay, maybe not so gross. He does have nice eyes. Wait, what am I thinking? He's at least five years older than me. Maybe more. And did something just move?_

Something had just moved – she was sure of it. The shadows had shifted oh-so-slightly, driving all thoughts of Clopin out of her mind, effectively snapping her regal green eyes to the darkness. "Who's out there?" She called, her voice weak and tremulous even to her own ears. She shook herself and stood up a little straighter. "Clopin?" She called hopefully. She'd be grateful to see him again, and maybe this time she could thank him. She realized she was being a major pain in the rear, what with him saving her so many times, and she decided she'd rectify this ASAP. But instead of the Gypsy King stepping out of the veils of darkness, it was the stunning gypsy woman, Esmeralda.

"Shh!" She hissed, laying a slender brown finger against her rosebud lips. "What do you want?"

"Did you wake me up?" Amelia asked in a hushed voice. Esmeralda glanced around, and then stepped further into the light. She was wearing a long, dark cloak, and her hair was loose and wild around her shoulders, roiling like black thunderclouds down her back.

"Yes, I did," She admitted. "I wanted company, but you were still asleep and I didn't want to wake you."

"Well, I'm up now," Amelia said dryly. "What did you want?" Studying Esmeralda's normally slim, tall figure, she observed that she appeared to be square-cornered, with an awkward, unnatural bulge near her hip. Esmeralda sighed and ran her hand through her hair, and then revealed a basket covered with a handkerchief from under her cloak, causing her strange shape to dissolve.

"I'm bringing this bread to a family on the outskirts of Paris," She admitted. "They're personal friends of mine, and they have two little ones who go hungry every night. It isn't much," She admitted, pulling back the handkerchief to reveal several loaves of bread, a few of them flat, others rounded with large a decorative design woven into the crust, "but every bite helps, especially with children. They're friends of the gypsies and they've saved my life on several occasions."

"Okay, so why are we waiting?" Amelia said, raising both of her eyebrows. Esmeralda blinked.

"I don't know, I thought the fact that Frollo is burning Paris down looking for us would be a deterrent." Esmeralda said flatly. Amelia frowned.

"Nah, we should be okay. It's dark," She said, with her usual lack of knowledge concerning Frollo – or ancient Paris, for that matter. "So, where do they live?"

"I don't know, Amelia," Esmeralda said slowly. "I should go alone. I – I don't want you to get hurt." Truthfully, she didn't want to get caught; the girl was crazy as a rabbit and noisy as a donkey in heat, two excellent reasons to keep her home. But there was something so eager in those beautiful, disdainful eyes that made her seem so honest and, well, _cute_. On the other hand, it would be nice to have company, and Amelia did have a way of providing entertainment. So she rumpled her hair again and sighed. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" She said, almost to herself, looking at Amelia's bright green-gold eyes.

"Probably," Amelia admitted. "But what's the fun if there isn't a little risk?"

"Amelia, you are truly mad," Esmeralda said to herself, creeping silently out of the Court of Miracles. Djali nipped at the hem of her skirt and began to follow, bleating softly. She heard Amelia's soft laugh behind her.

"It takes one to know one, Esmeralda. Takes one to know one."

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><p>Amelia finally began to understand why people honeymooned in Paris. The city was flawless under the velvet sky, glittering lights sparkling as it mirrored the jeweled stars above. Esmeralda seemed to know every back alley and street in Paris, and Amelia followed blindly, feeling a little silly for not being able to offer anything helpful. She had knocked over two trashcans, fallen once, and stepped on the tail of a cat all in the first half hour, and unless every citizen of Paris slept like zombies, Frollo should be there soon. Esmeralda instructed her in holding the basket and keeping her ears open for guards as she tried to make her way silently through the city, and Amelia contented herself that she could at least keep an ear open properly. Listening to music and trying to hear the fine distinctions in notes and out-of-tune pianos had sharpened her hearing quite a bit, so Amelia strained her hearing to make sure no soldiers were in their area. Esmeralda beckoned to her from a street corner, and Amelia noticed that the houses were gradually drawing farther and farther apart from each other as Paris began to fade into the French countryside. Gardens replaced alleys, and clotheslines were in place instead of trash bins, slowly taking over the city of Paris into a softer countryside. When they had traveled for several minutes, they reached a small, hand-lettered sign that said <em>BIENVENUE à PARIS!<em> in faded black letters.

Esmeralda stopped in front of a sprawling farm, with a neat barn that was a ragged black shape in the gentle glow of the full moon, a farmhouse which was lit from inside by a fire, and a crooked silo that leaned to the left. Amelia handed her back the basket, and Esmeralda knocked twice on the door. There was a metallic rattle as the bolt was drawn back, and a handle turned. A sliver of pale skin was exposed, along with a bright blue eye, and there was a tentative "_Bonjour?_"

"_Bonjour_, Maria," Esmeralda whispered. "It's me, Esmeralda."

The door was suddenly flung open wider, and Amelia saw a narrow, sharp-faced woman with worried brown eyes and grayish brown hair. She had faint lines around her mouth and eyes and a blue handkerchief tied under her chin. "Oh, Esmeralda, thank you!" The woman said, hugging her fiercely. "Pierre was just saying that it would take and act of God to feed Tana and Jean tonight, but we didn't know that God would take the form of a gypsy!" She babbled, ushering Amelia and Esmeralda inside. Inside, there was a large, bearded man sitting by the fire with a young boy on his knee. He got to his feet and grinned at Esmeralda, drawing her into a one-armed hug.

"God bless you, Esmeralda," Pierre said, and then looked at Amelia, who was blushing a little. "Who is this beautiful young friend of yours?" He asked, hugging her tightly as well. Amelia got an unwilling waft of tobacco smoke that made her sneeze, and he laughed.

"This is my friend, Amelia," Esmeralda said. "She's from...out of town. A foreigner."

"Foreigner or not, you are both angels from heaven!" Maria said, breaking a flat loaf in two and handing one to the small boy. "Tana! Come over here and eat!" Maria called, and a tiny toddler came stumbling over, weaving a little as if just learning how to walk. She latched onto the half of bread and began to suck on it, crumbs coating her mouth as she smiled directly at Amelia, the little girl's eyes huge and blue. Amelia, not a huge fan of children, felt her heart melt in spite of herself. Maria watched the exchange with delight, and then scooped Tana up and handed her to Amelia. "See, she likes you," Maria said, as Amelia was given the baby with the huge blue eyes.

"Uh, okay," Amelia said, holding the baby awkwardly, feathering her fingers through the duck-down fluff on top of the child's head. She balanced the child on one hip almost automatically, not really thinking about how the child fitted perfectly against her side. Esmeralda had a queer sensation swoop her body – eventually, Amelia was going to get married and have children. The girl was so strange that it hadn't occurred to her before, but now, looking at the girl smiling unawares at the baby, it seemed entirely possible. The only question was to whom...

Amelia stood straight up, her haughty eyes suddenly hardening. "I just heard a horse," She said, brows drawing together and looking outside. It was hard to see outside, seeing as the first blushes of dawn were only beginning to brush the sky, but she could see the foggy outlines of people amassing outside. Pierre glanced outside and then swore very creatively, but luckily, in French.

"Outside," He ordered the two women, and Amelia passed the baby back to the now-terrified mother. Esmeralda dragged her friend outside and they snuck over to the barn, hiding in the lingering webbing of darkness surrounding the farm. Amelia felt the cold, hard ground crunch with frost beneath her feet, and her pulse pounded in her temples, her stomach clenching in fear. Would they be spotted? She heard the shrill whinny of a horse, and Amelia looked up, frightened. She heard Esmeralda gasp as she caught sight of the iron-gray haired man sitting erect on the huge black horse. The horse itself was a majestic specimen – a coarse fringe curling over glinting black eyes, a thick curtain of fur over the massive hooves. The horse tossed its head impatiently, whinnying again, and Esmeralda clenched Amelia's hand tightly. Sitting on top of the horse was Judge Frollo, a cruel sneer twisting his mouth, cold eyes surveying the ragged little farm. Three soldiers surrounded him; two appeared to have bows and arrows on their back, while one was dressed in gold armor and had a sword on his hip. When the one in gold armor pulled off his helmet, both Esmeralda and Amelia bit back horrified cries.

Because the golden-armored soldier was the blonde man who had let Amelia go and taken such an interest in Esmeralda.

Judge Frollo dismounted easily and strode over to the door, hammering on it with the flat of his hand, his jeweled rings winking in the first beginnings of sunlight. The door opened slowly, and all four men swept in imperiously. From this distance, neither of the women could hear the words exchanged, but before too long, Frollo and the soldiers had left the house and slammed the door behind them. Frollo caught a spear from one of his men with his hand, then laid it flat against the door, barring it shut, and reaching inside a hidden pocket in his robe. Flint and tinder was produced, and a torch was soon lit, spreading yellow and orange beams flickering around the farm. And then he did the unspeakable - he handed the torch to the blonde guard and gestured to the house. And even from several hundred feet away, both girls could hear his ringing command, so that the terrified family trapped in the house could hear it as well.

"Burn it."

Amelia actually moved forward as if to bull towards them, arms flailing, and charge them recklessly, but Esmeralda dug her nails into Amelia's arm. All Amelia could think about was that little baby – the sweet little child with the biggest blue eyes she had ever seen. Her eyes glossed over, and her vision was suddenly colored crimson as she balled her fists. The monster! The unspeakable crime of which he was proposing was making her hair stand on end, make her flesh crawl with the horror she felt. Apparently, the blonde man felt the same way, because Amelia's sharp ears caught his response. "Sir, I wasn't trained to kill innocent people," He growled, sounding just as furious with his superior as Amelia was. The Judge raised his voice, shouting at his captain.

"But you _were_ trained to follow orders, Captain! Burn – it – down!" He snarled. The blonde man raised his arm, an expression of set anger on his face, and then looked towards the house. To disobey orders meant death. He locked his jaw, and looked at the dry thatch roof; it would catch within moments. He raised the torch a little higher, allowing the sparks to come within a breath of the straw roof...

And then plunged it into the rain barrel.

"Idiot!" Frollo shouted, and snatched another torch from another soldier, flinging it onto the roof. It was a cruel, sharp gesture, like a cat tearing the head off a mouse, so sudden and abrupt and Amelia almost didn't have time to react. Almost, but not quite. She moved forward yet again, and this time tore her arm free from Esmeralda's grip, running forward from the shadows towards the burning building. Already flames were crackling along the roofline, igniting along the windmill, roaring up at the sky, sending tongues of crimson and orange flames licking around the dry thatch. Barricading arms moved forward to block her way, but Amelia couldn't think straight – all she could think of was _getting those children out_. The blonde guard had already gone in before her, smashing open the door with the heel of his boot, fighting his way through the smoke that was beginning to wreathe the living room.

The fire was crumbling the house abnormally fast – she could feel the searing heat crash through the house, singing the hair on her arms and rising pink welts on her legs when she came into contact with the drifting embers collapsing from the ceiling. The blonde man had already pushed the man outside and was carrying the woman in his arms, and he looked towards Amelia, shouting something incoherent over the raging fire. It was probably something like 'Get out, you moronic twit', but Amelia wasn't listening. The little boy, Jean, was screaming for his mother, and Amelia scooped him up, holding him uncomfortably in the crook of one arm. The baby was pressed hastily against her chest as she ran outside in the blessedly fresh air, smoke stinging her eyes, making them tear and fill with water. She put down the children, felt them go to their parents, and doubled over, coughing and wiping her stinging, smarting eyes. The blonde guard was on his knees, a sword at his throat. "The sentence for disobeying orders is death. Such a pity. You threw away a promising career, Phoebus."

The man jerked his head up, jutting his chin arrogantly. "Consider it my highest honor, sir," he said bitterly, his shoulders forced downwards once more, the blade pressing into his neck. Frollo looked at Amelia, who was rubbing her eyes and frantically backing away from the blistering heat of the inferno, and then furrowed his brow in recognition.

"You! Girl!" He snapped, and Amelia blinked her pink eyes, still rubbing them. "You were in the cathedral the night the gypsy escaped! Take her!"

Everything happened at once – the soldiers released Phoebus, a stone struck the flank of Frollo's horse from out of nowhere, and Amelia tripped, falling flat on her back. The horse reared, bucking Frollo off in an undignified heap, Amelia shrieked as the soldiers hauled her upright, and Phoebus's fist connected with the jaw of one of the soldiers. Amelia felt a hand grab a handful of her blouse, and she was suddenly dragged on top of the black horse, yanked against someone, and the horse took off. Craning her neck, she looked back and saw Frollo screaming orders, and she whimpered, egging the horse on with nudges from her heels. Everything had happened so _fast_ – her mind was still trying to sort out the images and sights, putting them in order. Esmeralda – where was Esmeralda?

But none of this mattered when she heard Phoebus's grunt, and he slipped off the broad back of the horse. The hooves began to ring out sharply against the cobblestones of the bridge, and she heard a distant splash as Phoebus fell into the Seine below. She screamed – a raw, terrified, keening sound like the edge of a knife – as she saw Phoebus falling to his watery grave. Arrows were still darting around her, and she felt one of the whizz past her shoulder, grazing a red streak onto her arm in the process. The horse ran blindly, and she was more scared of the beast than she was of the soldiers. She had no way to control it, the beast was huge, powerful, and way out of her league. She felt herself bouncing harshly against the saddle, and she yelped when the beast reared, kicking her off, and sending her sprawling. The air was knocked from her lungs, and she rolled on her side, trying to catch the elusive breath that danced out of reach. The horse neighed again, rearing up, iron-shod hooves striking at the sky, and bolted towards Paris again. Amelia rolled over onto her back, heart hammering, her shoulder bleeding onto her blouse, her breath trapped out of her lungs.

She heard noises in the shadows, and she saw several dark figures in the emerging dawn. Slowly, her breath returned, and her doubled vision smoothed out. The soldiers raced past, the horse following them closely, Judge Claude Frollo still astride it, and she rolled over on her side to see the figures more closely. It was Esmeralda, leaning over a the prone form of Phoebus, her wild black hair framing her face as she took a pulse. She shot up a quick, grateful missive to the heavens that he was still alive, and then beckoned to Amelia, who was still on the ground, panting. "Over here!" She hissed. Amelia dragged herself over, looking at the blood seeping from Phoebus's wound. "I am going to get a healer I know. He's a gypsy, and he'll help. Stay here with him, all right? Please, Amelia!" Esmeralda pleaded, and Amelia nodded, trying to rid the fuzz from her vision.

She bent over Phoebus as Esmeralda took off down the streets of Paris, and winced when she saw the blood. _I am not going to pass out_, she told herself harshly. _You've seen blood before...picture yourself in a happy place. You're playing your violin for someone. Yeah, you're playing your violin for Clopin. Wait, Clopin? Fine, I'm playing my violin for Clopin, and he likes my music_.

Somehow, even in her befuddled mind, this thought made her blush.

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><p><strong>AN: Like? Not like? Not sure how this chapter came out. In some ways, I think it moved too quickly, but I was trying to create a feeling of urgency, so, y'know how that goes.**

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><p><strong>~Special Thanks~<strong>

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**Nostalgia's My Best Friend: **Yes, my Muse has been saved, thanks to your review! 8D

**CappySam:** Aww, thank you! I think Amelia is adorable too. She's one of the cutest character's I've written, and I've written a _lot_. I hope you keep reading!

**Fickle'Fan'Girl:** Yeah, it was about time Amelia had some violin time. Poor thing, one of these days she'll get her priorities straight. 8D Wow, I didn't know so much about Alaska! Is it really cold in the wintertime? Do you fish? Hunt? Anything Sarah Palin does? 8D

**Random Person 94**: Uh, okay. Here you go. (confused smile)

**Mighty ANT:** Yeah, Clopin has to put up with a lot, not the least of which is Amelia. School can be tough. Wait until you're a mother – it makes school look like a happy daydream. But you get time off, like when all the kids are in bed and you know you should be snuggling with your hubby, but he's watching those political TV programs you can't stand because the hosts yell so much, so instead you're in your kitchen writing on your old laptop and posting chapters on your stories. Yeah. 8D


	9. Chapter 8: Of Breaking and Mending

**~Chapter Eight: Of Breaking and Mending~**

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><p>The blood from Phoebus's wound soaked her fingers, the hot liquid seeping onto her frozen shirtsleeve. Her breath froze into an icy plume in front of her, short, frantic bursts of white fog clouding the air. He grunted a little, his strong features twitching as his hand jerked spasmodically, reaching for the source of his burning pain. It was a good thing she couldn't see the stain of crimson fluid slicking his tunic, otherwise she would have passed out yet again, setting a record for the amount of times she had passed out in a week. Her hair hung in a fiery red curtain around her face as she bent over him, fighting to get her hyper breathing under control, hands shaking erratically as she thumbed the vein on his wrist. She couldn't tell if she was doing it right, but after a heart-wrenchingly long time, she managed to hear a thick, steady pulse beating soundly in his wrist. Amelia rocked back on her heels, reached automatically up to swipe her fringe of red hair out of her eyes, unconsciously smearing a stripe of blood across her cheek. The slash of red painted her in a ghastly, savage light, and she felt foolish, crouching near the Seine in the middle of France, covered in blood – thankfully, not her own – and guarding a body.<p>

Her quick, sensitive ears pricked up, and she swiveled, hearing the approaching sounds of footsteps. It hadn't crossed her mind that the soldiers would come back – what should she do? Should she make a run for it and leave Phoebus? But that would also mean leaving him at the mercy of his own soldiers. She was just about to give up and make a dash for the nearest scrubby bush when she heard Esmeralda's familiar tones striding through the crisp January air. "Amelia? Amelia, where are you?"

"Over here!" Amelia hissed, trying not to sound panicked and frightened and failing abysmally. "Over here, right here!"

Not much could be seen in the dim light, but she felt Esmeralda's presence near her, and another, sturdier shape near her shoulder. "This is Carltoz, a friend of mine," Esmeralda explained hurriedly. "He's a healer, and related by marriage."

Amelia was beginning to think Esmeralda was either related to or friends with half of the city. Carltoz ignored Esmeralda and knelt near the injured captain, ripping apart Phoebus's tunic with two brawny hands. The sound of material ripping was a short, rabid snarl, and Amelia winced in spite of herself. Esmeralda felt the frayed, shredded nerves of her friend, and realized that Amelia was not used to this at all. Esmeralda had practically grown up tending to injured gypsies and running from guards, but judging by Amelia's squeaky breathing, this was all new to her. It wasn't entirely unexpected – gadje were soft, unaccustomed to the daily trials a gypsy went through, simply because they looked dark and sly. Carltoz's thick, calloused fingers danced around the sticky patch of blood, and then he announced in a surprisingly low, gentle voice, "He'll be fine. The arrow just missed his heart, so once we remove the head and disinfect the injury, he ought to be perfect." Without another word, he scooped the broad-shouldered Phoebus up without blinking an eye, and then turned to Esmeralda. "Where to, Esmeralda?"

Esmeralda bit her lip. Where could she possibly take him? The Court of Miracles was too far away entirely, and Phoebus needed medical attention right away. They couldn't see an dancing cricket in this light, and she needed someplace quiet and cool. Someplace out of the way, a place where she could tend to him undisturbed. The answer came to her quickly, a blinding flash of realization. "The Notre Dame Cathedral," She said briskly. Amelia's jaw dropped.

"Are you _nuts_?" Amelia snapped. "The last time we went there, we had to jump off a building! Now what are we going to do?"

"We're going to take him to the Notre Dame and claim sanctuary," Esmeralda retorted bitingly. "Frollo is expecting me to return to the Court of Miracles, not the cathedral. And anyway, he thinks Phoebus is dead and that I don't care for him."

Amelia arched an eyebrow in spite of herself. "So you're admitting you like him?"

Esmeralda knew that her clever tongue had tripped up, and she felt a heated blush prickle unpleasantly across her face. "No, I mean, I just – Never mind! I don't have to explain myself to you!" She said, but Amelia was looking at her with exasperation and mild indignation.

"Enough woman talk!" Carltoz growled. "Are we taking him to the Notre Dame or not?"

"We are." Esmeralda snapped.

"No." Amelia said at the same time. The two women glared at each other, hands on hips. "I'm not going to that death trap again as long as I live!" Amelia declared. Esmeralda folded her arms tightly across her chest.

"If you don't come with us, the rest of your life will be about five minutes. You can't survive out here on your own." Esmeralda snapped. "Now come on, Phoebus is getting worse by the minute, and if I have to drag you by your hair, I will!"

"No!" Amelia said, and Esmeralda saw that there actually was a very deep stubborn streak in the redhead – it was just buried too deep to see all the time. "I don't need help from a gypsy! Go away! I'll be fine on my own!"

"Amelia, if you leave us and get captured, I'll never forgive myself!" Esmeralda hissed impatiently. "I'm not the kind to leave a friend behind!"

The redhead seemed slightly taken aback. "We're not friends," She said, but perhaps a bit too uncertainly. It wasn't a foreign term to her – friends were something you had so you could go someplace else besides your own home. But Amelia had never been into making friends at school – it wasn't that she was unpopular; she was decently nice and dressed well, and probably could have made a small circle of friends, but she just never had the inclination. Her violin had been all that she needed – her violin didn't chatter about boys, or Justin Bieber, or throw stupid parties and not invite people. Esmeralda's glittering green eyes narrowed in exasperation.

"Yes, we are friends! Are you happy now, you crazy girl? Can we go?"

Amelia pouted, drawing her brows together and pulling her lower lip, and this triggered a memory of Clopin. Twice, Amelia had pouted in front of him, and both times he had laughed and looked almost...well, affectionate. Considering the two had fought like a tomcat and a mutt the last time she had seen them, the affection had been entirely out of place, and therefore, memorable. The warmth had been in his eyes a mere moment, but Esmeralda's woman's intuition had pricked up, and she was seldom wrong about things of that sort. Esmeralda felt a little jerk of anger inside her – Clopin had been her best friend growing up, her only ally when she was in trouble. He was like an older brother to her, and the idea of him getting involved – _Oh, what a word – _with anyone made her a bit ill. And she wasn't going to lose him to this useless little redhead who was selfishly attached to her violin and unable to stand squarely on her feet for five seconds. Without another word, Esmeralda turned to go, marching quickly up the street.

"Wait! I changed my mind!" Amelia said, and ran up behind them, panting. "Fine, I'm sorry. I'll come with you. But no roof-jumping, okay?" Amelia said. Esmeralda locked her jaw and said nothing.

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><p>The courtyard to the Notre Dame was blessedly empty, with nothing but long milky shadows from the full silver moon, and a few snow drifts here and there like forgotten piles of sugar. A glassy puddle, covered thickly with a sheet of slippery icy, marbled the cobblestones, filling in the tiny crevices and irregularities in the carefully lain stones. Esmeralda pulled her hood up over her face, holding Djali closely to her, feeling the thin bones of her pet ripple against her chest. He knew better than to move or bleat when he was being carried, and he tucked his damp, dark nose into the crook of her elbow. Amelia was fumbling along behind them, tripping over her own feet, stepping on cats' tails, and knocking over trash bins. Twice, Carltoz had hushed her, and Amelia had honestly tried to be quiet, but her uncoordinated feet wouldn't match up with her brain. Esmeralda threaded her way through the shadows, and then dropped Djali onto the cold cobblestones when she reached the huge, sleek oaken door. Her small, dark fingers wrapped around the burnished gold knocker, and she opened the door with barely a creak, the well-oiled hinges sliding contentedly. A wide bar of white light struck out against the darkness, and the three dark shapes entered the silent, ominous cathedral.<p>

Quasimodo watched from the rafters, hardly daring to believe his luck. Esmeralda, the beautiful, kind gypsy who had talked to him, laughed with him, smiled at him, was back! Along with the silly little girl, the redheaded one who had thrown such a fit at being taken out of the cathedral. With them was a wide, burly man carrying another figure in his arms. When Quasimodo dropped to the polished marble floor, all three of them jumped guiltily and looked towards him with big, frightened eyes. "Quasi? Quasimodo? Is that you?" Esmeralda asked, her voice high, tight with strain and an underlying current of anger and worry.

"Esmeralda!" Quasimodo cried, coming towards them shyly, his auburn thatch of hair hiding his eye as usual. "You're all right! I knew you'd come back." He smiled with such genuine happiness that it almost broke Esmeralda's heart.

"You've done so much for me, my friend," Esmeralda said, her voice a low whisper, "but I'm afraid I must ask one more favor of you."

"Anything. Anything." Quasimodo said, his eyes alight with obvious delight. Esmeralda gestured to the unconscious man in the burly gypsy's arms.

"This is Phoebus. He's wounded, and a fugitive like me. He can't go on much longer, and I knew he'd be safe here. Please, can you hide him?" Esmeralda asked, and she had that queer desperate note in her voice that only women can obtain when they are about to lose something they hold very precious. Quasimodo, having never heard that distinct little undercurrent of pleading in a woman's voice, simply took off up the stairs. But Amelia's quick brain put two and two together – Esmeralda liked Phoebus. Well, that in itself wasn't surprising. He was a strong, blonde man with good looks, and she was a beautiful, slender woman with an amazing figure. Realizing that her romantic musings had set her behind the rest of them, she followed them up the stairs hastily.

Quasimodo led them to a small alcove off in the left wing of the cathedral, a bed partitioned away from the room by a ragged cloth. Quasimodo drew back the material and tucked it into a crevice in the wall, allowing Carltoz to lay Phoebus down on the small cot gently. Esmeralda heard the guttural intake of breath from the blonde captain, and she pushed back his bangs, taking in the wound on his chest. She busied herself with removing the arrowhead, embedded not far below the surface of his hardened flesh, and she tossed it aside. His chest was bare and exposed to the flickering, elusive torchlight in the sconces, and she saw he was heavily muscled, with a thick line of blonde hair leading into his leggings. With a brutal snap, she tore a strip of cloth from her sleeve and wrapped it tightly around his torso, lifting him up by his back with all her might. He was heavy, and as she wrapped this bandage around him, she realized he was almost uncomfortably close to her. Blushing in spite of herself, she let him fall back amid the blankets and finished tying the knot over his arrow wound. He arched his back a little, coughing up a bit of fluid and then opened his astonishingly blue eyes. "Esmeralda?" He asked, confused, uncertain. Smoke-filled images crowd his mind, and he tossed them away.

"Shh," Esmeralda soothed, laying a hand on his chest. "Stay still. We're hiding here until you can move." Her hand dipped into her hip pocket, and she withdrew the small flask of alcohol she had used to revive Amelia. With her teeth, she uncorked the bottle and spat the cork away.

"Great. I could use a drink," Phoebus said gratefully, but instead, Esmeralda soaked his bandage thoroughly with the brandy. He hissed in pain, clenching his teeth together, his jaw turning into a firm ridge. "Ouch. Feels like a 1470 brandy. Not a good year."

Esmeralda looked at him seriously. "The Millers owe you their lives. You're either the craziest soldier I've ever met, or the bravest."

There is a wintery snap of irony in his words with he answered. "Ex-soldier, remember?" As if realizing his tone was bitter, he forced a tight smile on his face. "Why is it, whenever we meet, I end up bleeding?"

Esmeralda ignored his question, focusing instead on her suddenly fumbling fingers, trying to force down the heat in her face. She just realized she was kneeling very close to him, and her skirt has ridden up perhaps a fraction of an inch, but it's enough – her calf and his hip made contact, and the searing feel of skin-on-skin was doing strange things to her brain. "You're lucky. That arrow almost pierced your heart."

He felt the contact too, and his calloused hand gripped her wrist, surprisingly firm. "I'm not so sure it didn't," He said, the low voice sending shivers down her spine.

She never remembered who kissed whom – all she remembered was the feeling on his lips on hers, that softness mingled with the pleasant brush of his beard against her cheek. There is that unattainable heat, a simmering fire ready to spark to an inferno at the barest breeze, a caged lion ready to pounce from its tethers. She had kissed men before, but none of them had felt like this. This, this was more than a kiss – this was a sealing, a promise, an alliance, a commitment. This _meant_ something, meant something to her and meant something to him.

Amelia felt a dry heat raise the hair on her neck, and she stepped unconsciously away from them, a blush flaming her cheeks. _Whoa, they are totally making out_, Amelia thought to herself, wanting to examine Phoebus's kissing techniques but feeling very uncomfortable at the same time. She didn't know whether or not to clear her throat and remind them of reality, or to leave and let them have some privacy. But she heard an almost inaudible sniff near her, and she saw the hunchback wiping tears from his eyes. And they weren't tears of happiness – they were bitter, broken, hurting tears, tears that hurt more emotionally than any physical wound. Amelia reached for him automatically, trying to let him know that there was human contact, her hand touching his shoulder. But he flinched abruptly, drawing away from her instantly, cowering in the corner with his face over his eyes.

Two hearts joined in that moment, and two hearts broke – one from grief, and one from longing.

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**A/N: Sorry for the long wait! It's been an ABSOLUTE MADHOUSE, trying to buy Christmas presents for everybody I know, and decorating, and cooking, and sending Christmas cards, and all of the crazy stuff that goes on around Christmas. Anyway, think of this as my early Christmas gift for you guys! Enjoy!**

**Firestorm N.: **Yeah, that scene was awful. However, I find it a bit weird that the entire house and windmill took about two seconds to catch on fire, when it takes James fifteen minutes to get our wood stove working. Aww, you have problems at school? I know how you feel. –.- If it wasn't for my best friend Gabbi (may she rest in peace), I would have totally blown a gasket during my high-school years and done something crazy. Hope this chapter cheers you up!

**Fickle'Fan'Girl: **I hope I got all the emotions right in this chapter – my mind is a bit scattered, so that's kind of how this chapter came out. As for the weather, BRR! at least you have white Christmases. We usually have white thanksgivings and brown Christmases...Oh well. My husband is a huge fan of Sarah Palin (and Newt-somebody, for that matter), but I don't know that much about politics. Everybody just seems too angry on the TV and the radio, so I just listen to my twangy country music and try and keep my nose out of it. All I know is this: Why is milk at $3.89 a gallon!

**CappySam: **Ah, there will be some Clopin/Amelia moments coming up. Although, I can't imagine him being too pleased she snuck out...xD

**Everlastingflower96: **Wow! I'm glad you like it! I like writing about redheads – I'm a ginger, so I always identify with them. Although long hair is a pain in the butt, so I cut it short. xD Anyway, I hope you like this chapter! 8D

**Nostalgia's My Best Friend: **Soon, I promise! Next chapter, there will be some nice realizations and some arguing. Kitty fights! xD


	10. Chapter 9: Of Protection and Anger

**~Chapter Ten: Of Protection and Anger~**

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Djali considered himself the excellence of his species. He wasn't a dumb goat by a long shot – no, how many goats do you know can dance for coins? Djali knew that he was gifted, and, as goats go, was extremely conceited about the fact. He was bordering on arrogant, all things considered. But he could never understand these humans – why, he began bleating at the window almost five minutes ago, when the chariot had first pulled up to the door, and still no-one was paying attention. The stupid one, the human with the long red hair and the sleepy eyes, was crying in a corner with the ugly one, who seemed to be sniffling himself. His mistress, however, was murmuring something in a low voice to the blonde man whom she had attacked earlier. Djali stamped his rear hooves in frustration. First she had attacked him, and he had helped, and then the two seemed to be feeding on each other's faces. He would never understand humans, but now wasn't the time to be discussing the oddities of his mistress's race. He gave a particularly loud bleat just as the bolt shot back from the front door, and his mistress jumped to her feet, a wild look in her eyes. The ugly one looked panicked, and then said something in a very low, fast voice, and the next thing Djali knew was that his mistress had flung him into her arms. His teeth rattled together as she scrambled through the door and into another corridor, followed closely by the stupid redhead who was now yakking about something in a high-pitched, terrified voice. He bleated at her, but his mistress just shushed him and they hurtled downwards, their feet slapping noisily on the stone steps, until they reached a small wooden door.

Amelia felt the cold blast of winter air hit her squarely in the face, freezing the tears on her cheeks and making her shiver. She didn't know how Esmeralda went around dressed as she did, with her shoulders exposed – the January air was frigidly cold and she felt her feet go numb very quickly. Djali was giving her an evil eye which only goats can obtain, and Amelia stuck her tongue out at him pettishly. He, in turn, blew a raspberry, completely knocking Amelia off balance mentally, and caused her to trip over her own feet. Well, seeing as he was looking smugly down at her from Esmeralda's arms, he didn't _physically_ trip her. But he did make her lose her concentration, which, with Amelia, was basically the same thing. She got to her feet swearing like a sailor, and the two girls fled into the night, panting and expelling frosty white clouds of breath in the air. "Hurry!" Esmeralda said, turning a corner neatly and pressing her back against the wall. Amelia took the corner, but not quite as nicely, and nearly upended herself again. Amelia winced and rubbed at her calves, which were red and shiny from the heat of the fire she had charged into not two hours ago. _Well, at least I don't have to shave my legs_, she thought to herself ironically. _Great method, Amelia. Just dash into a burning building, and _presto!_ No more hair!_

Esmeralda paused and waited until her friend had righted herself, and then closed her eyes. "We can – wait here for a moment," Esmeralda panted, swallowing draughts of air. Amelia sank to the ground gratefully, but almost instantly shot to her feet, having sat down in the middle of an icy puddle. Esmeralda bit her lip to keep from spilling out a relieved laugh, and looked at the scowl on Amelia's face.

"Hey, Esmeralda?" Amelia said after both of them had caught their breath, but were unwilling to leave the shady warmth of the overhang they had found. Amelia looked at her feet and twisted a lock of red hair around her finger. "I'm sorry for being an idiot back there, and wasting time. I thought – well, I'm _really_ scared of heights."

"I know," Esmeralda said, putting Djali down on the ground and allowing the goat to stretch his legs. "And I'm sorry for snapping at you. I just –" She hesitated, looking at Amelia in her disheveled state, the clothes wet and muddy, her hair a frizzy mess, soot streaking her arms and face. Amelia cocked her head to the side and leaned against the building, lifting her eyebrows slowly, feeling an extreme exhaustion settle over her.

"What?" She asked, almost lazily, and Esmeralda shook her head. The gypsy didn't want to say what she had been thinking – _I don't want you snatching away my friend – _and instead, passed her dry tongue over her dry lips. She could almost taste the fear which still sang in her veins, the fear of being caught by that horrible man. She rested her head back against the wall, panting.

"Nothing," She said, almost to herself, the words hidden beneath the sound of her still-settling breathing. "Come one, we need to keep moving," She said, after a long pause, and Amelia opened one eye and gave a short nod. Esmeralda scooped up Djali and the pair took off again down the street, their feet hushing over the grimy cobblestones with a good deal more finesse than previously. Esmeralda noted Amelia's thick breathing, but also noticed her shortened stream of complaints. The girl was growing a spine, or at least learning to curb her tongue. This slight sign of maturity irked her slightly, jabbing her like a hot fork. Any sign of Amelia being a suitable match for anyone – _Clopin_ – was annoying, to say the least.

The graveyard was silent, as it always was, and the rusty hinges screeched in a wild peal of pain as Esmeralda tore the gates open. The rusty bars bit deep into her palms, but she ignored the flakes of rose blossoms which peeled from the iron and shed onto her hands. The tombstones gaped toothily with crooked gray teeth, sagging against one another and sinking into the mushy, black earth. The soggy, dark path twisting sinuously between the tombstones felt mossy, slick and damp beneath their feet, and Amelia shivered slightly. Djali bleated morosely, and Esmeralda dropped him into the mud, ignoring his indignant look. In front of them was a huge stone monument, flat slabs of sheer rock closing off a tomb of some dignitary. An elaborately carved stone angel tilted her pain-wrought face to the heavens and her huge, frozen wings curved against the ivory paper moon. The thick slabs of rock were covered in rude script, but Esmeralda ignored this as well and slid her slender, dark fingers between the crack of the stones and pulled with all her might. The stone gave a deep, rustling grumble and moved perhaps a fraction of an inch. Esmeralda blew a strand of dark hair from her eyes and glared at the opening; this was much easier to open from the other side.

Amelia cocked her head to one side and frowned. "How do you open it?" She asked, watching mutely as Esmeralda threw her weight into pulling the sheaf of stone aside once more. There was another granite rasp, and it moved another quarter of an inch. Esmeralda blew on her fingers and let her shoulders fall loose.

"Well, you're supposed to – _unhh_ – open it like this," Esmeralda said, yanking against it once more. "But I'm no Clopin, and I can't open it myself."

"Wait, you mean Clopin can open this by _himself_?" Amelia asked, raising her eyebrows and looking down at the thick rocks. She was tired to the bone, and her legs burned as though red ants were crawling over them, and her shoulders screamed in protest when she pulled halfheartedly at the opening. Esmeralda caught herself quickly – she needed to direct this conversation elsewhere.

"Maybe we could bang on it," Esmeralda said, and Amelia noted this conversation change. For once, she elected to keep her mouth shut and merely slumped against the rock, running a weary hand through her bedraggled hair. She didn't particularly care what they would talk about, didn't really care that Esmeralda was protecting him, or anything. All she cared about was getting inside, to the Court of Miracles, and getting a hot bath and a bite to eat. She wouldn't mind snuggling under a pile of blankets in Clopin's caravan, actually – the idea of drifting off to sleep while inhaling the sharp, lingering scent of basil was inviting.

"And that would do what, exactly?" Amelia snapped. She closed her eyes and felt her pulse throb in her temples. She squeaked in surprise as she heard the scrape of stone against stone. She somersaulted in a very ungainly fashion, and saw a large, round, bearded face smiling at her.

"Ah, _chere_, we find you once more in a snowbank," said the deep, gravelly voice of Harman. "Come, Esmeralda, bring your cold friend inside and we shall have soup."

* * *

><p>He hadn't been able to sleep all night.<p>

He had sent out search parties, of course, ordering them to be furtive and silent, collecting information only. They had rolled their eyes and made their jokes in low voices, none of them having the decency to say anything about his new interest with this girl to his face. But he was the Gypsy King of France, and therefore told to stay home while they looked for the girl and Esmeralda. Rosa had instructed him to go to bed, but that was even worse; not only did her have to stay in his chilly, empty caravan and think about everyone else doing all the work, but the place _smelled_ of her. It wasn't so much a scent as it was a _feeling – _his blankets had been thrown back carelessly, but there was still a shell of a formation where the blanket might have curved around her hip. The dip in his pillow indicated where his houseguest had lain her head, and he had stood there and stared at his own hammock for what seemed like forever. And then, when he had actually tried to get to _sleep_, he found it impossible; something distinctly feminine lingered around the edges of his pillow, mingling with the crisp, basil-scented soap he usually used to wash his linens and clothes.

But the damning question was _WHY?_

She was not pretty, intelligent, wise, or clever. She was not even _gypsy_! She was merely a redheaded woman who played the violin exceptionally well, a woman who was clumsy to extreme fault and who didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. She didn't know French, her way around Paris, or know when to shut up. And yet, he had rescued her three times, for three separate reasons: The first time, because he was felt pity for the young lost girl, missing her violin in the streets of Paris. The second time, he had done the sensible thing he would have done for anyone – tell them to take sanctuary until everything blows over. But it was the third time which gave him grief, the third time he rescued her which was annoying him to no end. He couldn't fathom why he had brought the girl in from the cold – she would have awoken frozen and stiff, for the morning sun would have thawed her effectively, and he knew far better than to reveal the location of his people. And yet, he had brought her here anyway, brought her to the legendary Court of Miracles despite these things.

He brushed his way out of his caravan when he heard the whooping, shouting clamor outside, folding his arms as he took in the procession. Esmeralda and Amelia were in the center of a small crowd of people, women ruffling their hair, men whistling smilingly. They both looked terrible – muddied and soaked to the bone, and judging by the way they were both shaking, half-frozen. But Amelia looked _horrible_ – her ankles and a bit of her exposed calves were shiny and unnaturally red, her red hair singed brittle at the tips, and her cheeks smeared with soot, painting her fantastically. Those green-gold eyes stood out sharply in her snow-pale cheeks, and he felt more than a twinge of sympathy. But his simmering anger boiled over when he saw that tired little smirk lifting the corner of her mouth, anger at himself for allowing him to be angry, but mostly angry at her for sneaking out.

The crowd parted to make way for their Gypsy-King, and Esmeralda looked relieved, a little frightened, and tired. "Oh, Clopin –" she began, but was cut off.

"Where the _bensier_ have you been?" He demanded, and the crowd quickly and wisely began to disperse. However, listening ears pressed against walls and curtains, straining to hear the conversation. Esmeralda jutted her chin defiantly.

"I brought some bread to the miller family. You know they've always helped us in our times of trouble, and they went hungry this winter, harder than most." Esmeralda said. Clopin shook a finger in her face.

"That gives you no right to go running off in the middle of the night!" He said. Amelia butted in, her soot-smeared eyes half-lidded and looking as disdainful as ever.

"Great, wonderful, yes, Clopin, we're sorry. Can we go to bed now?" She asked, those lazy eyes almost closing. She snapped awake when Clopin drew closer to her, and those dark, beautiful eyes were even darker with his genuine anger. She was taken aback at his eyes, and he saw a spark of surprise in her unusual green-gold orbs. "Hey, Clopin, what's wrong?" She said, startled, and he broke in.

"You snuck out, in the middle of the night, without my permission! And you have the _daring _to ask me what is _wrong_?" He demanded. Esmeralda took a step backwards, unable to believe her eyes. Because, yes, he was angry, but he was also _p__assionate_.

"Both of you, stop it!" Esmeralda said, more to break the bond between their eyes, because they hadn't actually argued, per se. Her voice was higher and tighter than she had expected, and Amelia looked at her, curious even in her exhaustion. Clopin took a deep, shuddering breath, and then threw his hat into the dust, running his hands through his hair.

"Esmeralda, go to your caravan," He said, and his tone brooked no argument. Esmeralda folded her arms.

"No." She said. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she glared at him, then went off with tears smarting in her eyes. Didn't he know she was just trying to _protect_ him?

With Esmeralda gone, Amelia looked almost fearfully at Clopin. He had seemed so angry just moments ago – was he going to strike her? Their arguments had been mocking and only slightly serious, but he had seemed to furious with her, genuinely and really _furious._ She almost didn't want to raise her eyes to his, but his gloved hands were curiously still. She dared flick her gaze up past his tall frame and past that bearded chin, and into those intense black eyes. To her surprise, the anger had faded, replaced by a ruefulness, sympathy, and slight softness.

"Come," He said, his voice still sounding a little clipped, but much better than it had been previously. "Let's get some salve on those burns." He said, and jerked his chin towards his caravan.

She didn't know that all she would have to do in the future to keep him happy was pout.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry for not updating for so long, but my personal life is starting to fall apart and my daughter just got braces for the first time, so a little pain there. Anyway, tell me what you think. Is the romance going too fast? Too slow? What? **


	11. Chapter 10: Of Murder and Trespassers

**~Chapter Ten: Of Murder and Trespassers~**

* * *

><p>"Ow ow ow ow ow <em>ow<em>!"

Rosa chuckled to herself as she spread another layer of salve over Amelia's calves, the redhead screwing up her face and fisting the blankets as the stinging lotion began to work. Once again, she was back in Clopin's caravan, but this time she was too busy waiting for the lotion to numb the burns than think about the scent of basil. She was supporting herself on her knuckles, hissing in pain as Rosa smoothed more ointment on her legs. Clopin was sitting on a stool near the hammock, a turnaround from his aloof stance in the corner not so long ago. He chuckled to himself as she hissed at the cold contact of the salve against her singed legs, and realized she hadn't been lying – she had an _exceptionally_ low tolerance for pain of any sort. She glowered at both Rosa and Clopin, who were trying to muffle their chuckles at the sight of her grimace. "I thought you said it didn't sting!" Amelia snapped, her haughty green-gold eyes flashing. Clopin rolled his eyes and arched an eyebrow.

"It doesn't. You're imagining things, _mon chere_," Rosa told her. "Now, be still while I find you a new blouse." She got to her feet and began digging through the clothes she had brought with her, looking for a new shirt for Amelia to put on. "Why did you go into that building, foolish girl?" Rosa tutted. "You could have been killed, and then where would you be, eh?"

"Burned to a crisp," Amelia answered promptly. "But it doesn't matter. That guy was going to _burn_ that entire family! I mean, what a cruel, heartless, stuck up, twisted, demented, sick psycho!" She sputtered, her limited vocabulary failing her. "He ought to be _shot_."

"Many are of the same opinion," Clopin said, and Amelia noticed his already dark eyes going the color of ink. His jaw locked subtly, and Amelia got the feeling he was holding himself in check. "Judge Frollo has done worse, far worse, to the gypsies and any who oppose him. Burning a family is the least of them."

"Well, someone needs to stand up to him," Amelia said loftily. "And then they should whack him over the head with a hammer, and then string him up like a plucked rooster, and then use electrodes to shock the brains from his ears." Amelia finished viciously. As was quickly becoming a habit, Clopin and Rosa ignored the phrases they didn't understand and changed the subject. She certainly was a strange one.

"Ah, now, I found a blouse for you to wear," Rosa said. Rosa wagged a finger at Clopin, smiling while she did so. "And while I am sure our Gypsy king would like the view, he must leave while our guest bathes and changes."

Was it possible that he _blushed_ a shade of pink beneath his dark complexion? Clopin snatched his hat from a peg by the door and shoved it on his head. All this talk of Judge Frollo was getting him riled, and now Rosa had caught him off guard. "Foolish woman," He remarked. "Accusing someone of a crime he does not commit." With that, he left, the door slamming behind him. Rosa tossed a damp rag from the wash basin to Amelia and smiled at her.

"You are doing very well," Rosa told her in a secretive whisper. "Soon, we shall have a wedding to rival all weddings! Ah! Clopin, my King, married to a gadje! What next?"

Amelia stopped washing the soot from her cheeks and went a shocking, abrupt shade of crimson. "What?" She spluttered. "I mean, I'm not – married? What the heck? Wedding – I'm not going to – Clopin's nice, but – what? Why do you keep doing this to me? I'm not marrying Clopin! Oh my _gosh_, seriously, I'm only seventeen! I'm not getting _married_!"

"And what is wrong with this?" Rosa asked curiously, smoothing a new skirt over her hands. "I myself was married at seventeen. My daughter, Sofia, she is married to big, important merchant. She is sixteen. Good age to be wed, in my thoughts." Rosa said. Amelia's cheeks could easily have fried eggs.

"Look, maybe it's okay where _you_ guys come from, but where I come from, it's _weird_. It's _beyond_ weird. It's like...kind of _gross_. And besides, Clopin is _not_ my type. At all." Amelia began fumbling with the laces on her corset, tugging at the knots, and she turned deliberately away from Rosa's eyes so her blush wouldn't make her head explode.

"Eh? 'Type'? I do not understand," Rosa said, breaking the cardinal rule of not asking Amelia to explain herself. She never explained herself properly.

"I mean, Clopin's nice. Really nice. But he's just not – ah, forget it. I can't explain it." Amelia said, tugging her corset over her head and flinging it aside. The new blouse Rosa gave her was almost the exact replica of her old blouse, save perhaps a size smaller. She pulled this over her head and tucked it into her new skirt. The corset gave her perhaps an even more difficult time than before, and she had to stop herself from taking it carefully in both hands and shredding it into little tiny pieces. When she had finally pulled it up past her hips and began messing with the corset laces, she decided half the battle was over. The corset was saved, at least for the moment. Rosa raised her eyebrows and laughed silently to herself.

Clopin liked her, he just didn't see it. Amelia liked him, she was just in denial. All things need a push from an old woman, she decided to herself. She would have them together in no time flat if she was allowed to meddle a little. Besides, Rosa thought to herself, meddling never hurt anyone. Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard a familiar sound thudding through the cavern where they lived – the dull, monotone sound of a drum being beaten. It meant one thing: intruders. Spies. Trespassers. Amelia looked up, confused, cocking her head to the side, looking for the sound of the drum. "What's that?" She asked, and Rosa thought fast. The last thing she wanted Amelia to see was a hanging.

"Trespassers." Rosa said, all traces of jocularity gone from her tone. "Stay in the caravan, _chere_, while I go see what is happening."

"No, wait!" Amelia called out after her, hopping on her good foot while keeping the other singed one off the ground. "I want to come too!"

"Stay!" Rosa said, her voice uncharacteristically hard. "Do _not_ come out, Amelia!"

Amelia was never one to follow rules. Dropping to her sore knees, she pulled out her damp boots and stuffed her feet into them, hissing at the little spurts of pain which shot up her legs. Rosa's shawl was still on the hammock where she had left it, and Amelia swirled this around her shoulders, the mass of fabric swallowing her. She felt a little silly, with unlaced boots on the opposite feet, a large shawl around her shoulders, and her legs still shiny from burns, but she didn't particularly care at the moment. She left the caravan, hop-clomping until she reached the main divide. People were beginning to amass, colors and fabrics jiving together to create a tapestry of sights and sounds, but there was a charged energy among them that she didn't like. Thick, harsh, and bitter, they all had sneers on their faces and their speech was low, growling murmurs. They seemed coarse and angry when they had been jovial and cheerful only minutes before. She spotted a concerned looking Rosa wading her way through the crowd, and Amelia followed her, shouting her name. However, the uncooperative boots tripped her up, and she fell flat on her face, skinning her palms and smearing spots of blood on the stone. It hurt almost as much as her legs, but something was happening, something bad, and Amelia didn't know what.

"Gather 'round, everybody, there's good _noose_ tonight!" Cried a familiar voice, and Amelia felt her stomach lurch sickeningly as she caught the pun. And the _voice_ – that was Clopin's. She got to her feet, wincing at her scraped knees and palms, but her mouth was dry and her stomach churning terribly. Were they...? No. Hanging was illegal. But this was a different world, she reminded herself. They couldn't be – would they? Her eyes, normally untrained for such a thing, followed a rope leading from a lever to the bottom of the stage. All at once, she realized what the stage was for – it was a hanging post. This was _murder_.

And it made it a hundred times, no, a _thousand_ times worse when she saw who it was.

Quasimodo, gentle, innocent Quasi, was bound and gagged, a noose around his neck, his big blue eyes filled with tears and his wrists straining at the ropes. Phoebus was next to him, glaring at Clopin, quite still, but Amelia saw the fear in his eyes. A noose was also settled on his neck, and Amelia felt bile rise in her throat. They were going to _hang_ them. She began forcing her way through the crowd, tripping over her own feet, time slipping sideways as she grasped at people's shoulders, elbows, sleeves, trying to keep herself upright but also trying to get their attention. She tried to form the words to protest, but her mouth was too dry – her breath stuck in her throat, and her chest felt as though a weight were pressing down on it. She was dimly aware that Djali had pelted past her, his hooves clipping on the ground, but her hearing was sliding in an out, as though she were underwater.

And then Clopin's gloved hands wrapped around the lever which would plunge the two of them to their doom.

She couldn't form coherent words to stop him, couldn't find the breath to scream, but tears poured down her cheeks, fast and hot, and her cry was strangled and weak. "No!" She yelped, and some tiny, sane corner of her mind wondered where her bravery had gone. She had been so courageous when she had to save those children, but now, looking at this – this was _murder in cold blood._ By someone she knew. A person she liked. A man she trusted. How could he be doing this? And with a _smile_ on his face? She felt sick.

"_STOP!_"

It was Esmeralda, her clothes clean and mended, her emerald eyes blazing. The crowd went dead silent, and Clopin looked at her, confused, his hand hesitating on the lever.

"These men aren't spies, they're our _friends_!" Esmeralda said, slipping the nooses off their necks. Her dark, fast fingers untied their gags and picked apart the tight knots which had held them captive. Clopin shrugged dismissively, his charming smile rising to his lips as usual.

"Well, why didn't they say so?" Clopin asked, seeming slightly miffed that they had robbed him of his fun.

"We _did_ say so!" Phoebus and Quasimodo said in unison, both of them still trembling from their close brush with death. Amelia's legs almost gave way, but she forced herself through the crowd, propelling herself towards Clopin. She was going to kill him. Or slap him. Or both, in quick succession. Or maybe she would scream at him.

"Phoebus saved the miller family, and Quasimodo helped me escape," Esmeralda was explaining to the Gypsy King. Phoebus wasted no time – he dashed to the front of the platform and his deep voice was ringing out over the crowd in moments.

"We came to warn you! Frollo says he knows where you're hiding, and he's attacking at dawn with a thousand men!" Phoebus shouted, and instantly the entire crowd disappeared. It was so sudden it would have shocked Amelia, but she was numb, her belly heaving thickly. The gypsies were dismantling caravans, gathering children and animals, stuffing items into their wagons and loading crates into carts. Esmeralda began talking with Phoebus and Quasi, most likely thanking them, but Clopin had eyes only for Amelia.

She was just _looking_ at him, her haughty eyes so repulsed and disgusted that he felt ashamed. Ashamed for defending his people, defending his home. And he almost wished she would leap up on the stage and slap him, shake him, shout at him, but she did _nothing_. He leapt off the stage, landing gracefully on the ground, and approached her. She stumbled backwards, Rosa's shawl still gripped in her fist, her boots mismatched and on opposite feet. And in that one moment as she flinched from him, he saw her innocence shine through, bright and full. She had no _idea_. She never had to protect anybody except herself. She had grown up in the lap of luxury, despite her claims of not being royalty, and now she was faced with a cold, hard truth of life which had smacked her brutally. "Amelia -–" He began, his tone gentle, but she backed up further with a little cry, shuffling away from him.

"Murderer," She said, her voice tight. "_Murderer_! You were going to kill them!"

"I was going to protect my people!" Clopin snapped. "It's what I do! Do I like doing it? _Non_! But I will do whatever necessary – _non_, whatever possible, to protect my people, my family!"

"You didn't even give them a chance to explain themselves!" Amelia sobbed, breathing harshly. Her cheeks, still slightly dirty from her unfinished bath, were wet with tears. "You didn't even – didn't even – d-d-didn't..." She broke off again, swallowing her hard, ragged pants.

"I will do what I must," Clopin said ruthlessly. "You do not know! You ran into save the miller family, and you think that gives you scope of the world? Amelia, _look at me_ –" He closed the gap between them, both hands bracing her cheeks and tilting her chin back, forcing her eyes to look into his. "Frollo will do worse than that. He beats and tortures who he pleases, he has no pity or mercy for small children and young women! His soldiers are _worse_, raping and savaging women of any age! You think you understand the world, _mon chere_, but you do not. There are demons out there, demons ready to kill and tear apart _famille_ with no emotion at all."

She just looked at him, still trembling from head to foot, and then backed away from him, tearing herself free from his arms. She kept walking away from him, her eyes on his, and then turned to run. She needed to run, and keep running until she couldn't run any longer, but something was blocking her path. Looking up, she saw the lined, graying, cruel face of Frollo smirking at her. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the gypsy girl," He said, and clicked his fingers together.

Soldiers surrounded the entire cavern, all of them grim faced, only a few actually grining, and there was a definite sadistic tinge to those who were. Spears glinted in the light, and shields flashed, the soldiers in full armor. It was overpowering - there were only perhaps two hundred gypsies, and more soldiers kept piling in, blocking any chance of escape.

"Take them alive, soldiers, I wish to make an example of this so-called _Court of Miracles_. Hah!" He seized Amelia's wrists, pinning them together, and glowered at her. "Where is the gypsy girl, Esmeralda?"

"Here!" Shouted a voice, and Frollo dropped Amelia, his full attention towards the dark-haired gypsy woman.

"Not so miraculous now, mm?" Frollo snarled, dragging Esmeralda towards him by a fistful of her inky black hair. "Court of Miracles – hah!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Back from vacation. Had a reasonably good time, but I'm afraid this chapter isn't at all what I intended. Oh well. Review and tell me how horrible it is. Since there weren't many reviews from the last chapter, I'll just do a blanket thank-you. xDD Major thanks to everyone!**


	12. Chapter 11: Of Disney Endings

_Where the hell is my happy ending? I'm starving. I'm cold. And my knees hurt. I thought this was supposed to be a Disney movie! _

Amelia was cramped against the corner of a large cage, loaded in along with nearly twenty other gypsies. The thoughts ran disjointed and abruptly through her mind, startled birds leaving a branch, and with each passing minute she grew colder and more hungry. The crush of bodies was uncomfortably close, and due to the lack of space, Amelia had been pressed tightly against frigid metal bars for the entire night. They had loaded them like cattle into the wagons, and driven them to the Palace of Justice, where they were all promptly ignored. Amelia hadn't seen Clopin or Esmeralda all night, and she was worried sick about both of them. Any attempt to talk was silenced by the guards, who jabbed spear butts through the bars and whacked out at legs and ankles. So the gypsies sat, silent and frozen, the entire night, the icy January wind biting through their clothes. A baby squalled somewhere, and there was a brief attempt to quiet it, for the wagons were cramped and the guards were nasty. But now, they had been all pulled into the Notre Dame courtyard, where a pyre had been erected. A sick, terrified feeling grew steadily in Amelia's belly, and she whimpered a little against the bars. There was no doubt as to what was going on – kindling and wood was being piled at the base of a pole, and there were ropes piled loosely near it. Someone was going to be burned. The wagons stopped moving with a jolt, and Amelia gripped the bars hard, straining her eyes in the dusky predawn to catch any glimpse of Esmeralda or Clopin. Whatever Clopin had done, she wasn't going to lose him. She'd think of a good reason later.

And then they led her out.

Esmeralda, devoid of bright clothes and artful kohl, was still beautiful. A simple white dress hung to her knees, and her inky black hair roiled messily in loose curls over her shoulders. Those vivid green eyes were fearless, and her chin was a prideful jut as she marched slowly towards her death. She stood quite still as the guards bound her to the post, and it was then that the gypsies began to react. They shouted and yelled, sometimes in French, and sometimes in English, occasionally in a language Amelia didn't know, but the guards were having trouble keeping them under control. Amelia shied away from a spear point, yelping a little, and felt that familiar frozen feeling. She willed herself to shout something, defend her, but there were too many guards poking and jabbing, and she lost her nerve. There were so many _people_ – guards, peasants, regular townspersons; they all carried torches and looked grimly at the woman about to be burned alive. They did not seem delighted by the festivities – on the contrary, there was a border of guards keeping them back. Evidently Judge Frollo's actions towards innocent gypsies were attracting too much attention.

Frollo leaned towards the beautiful gypsy woman, asking her something, and in response, Esmeralda tilted her head back and spat viciously at him.

It was then that Amelia found something to say.

"Atta girl, Esmeralda!" She shouted.

Frollo's thin cheeks flared red from both Esmeralda's defiance and the faceless jibe, and he backed away. Snatching a torch from a nearby soldier, he flung it onto the branches at Esmeralda's feet. Yellow and orange ribbons of flame danced instantly among the dry wood, and smoke began to fill the air. Thick plumes of smoke twirled lazily up against the sky, where the first streaks of pink were heralding the approaching dawn. The gypsies rattled the bars, roaring their horror to the skies, and Amelia was right there with them, screaming like a deranged beast, pushing mightily against the bars and clawing at the faces of guards. A gauzy layer of crimson shaded her vision, and she felt the numbness melt from her limbs as she shrieked in outrage against this injustice. Beneath the noise of rage, there was a deep, rumbling, cracking noise as stone crumbled someplace close. Esmeralda gave a weak, strangled cry, and Amelia thrashed against the confines of the cramped quarters, wishing she could see Esmeralda properly, wishing she was out of this cage and within punching distance of Frollo.

Suddenly, swooping out of nowhere, with the fine aerobics of an eagle, Quasimodo soared down to the stage. He was swinging from a rope, and there were whoops of joy as he bulled his way through the smoke and flames, tearing Esmeralda bodily from the pyre. He threw her over his shoulder, and with one swipe of his arm sent the burning pole crashing towards the approaching guards. Sparks and embers flew in every direction, and Quasi hauled himself up towards Notre Dame. The crowd was gasping in fascination and delight as he rescued the woman he loved, and Amelia felt tears welling up in her eyes. Esmeralda was safe! But then what would become of them? Frollo was snarling something at the guards, and they began assembling themselves before the cathedral. Quasimodo reached the beautiful stained glass window, and just then the sun burst over the horizon in a glorious spray of dazzling white. The stained glass window caught every drop of the sun, spreading it into a fantastic array of jeweled colors. He held Esmeralda aloft over his head, her beautiful dark skin illuminated by the whiteness, and roared out to the crowd.

"_Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary_!" He bellowed, and Amelia felt a ragged sob tear from her chest.

He disappeared, and Amelia knew that Esmeralda was safe. She would be fine. But what of them? Frollo was glowering at them, spitting orders at the guards. Amelia felt her stomach drop – they were going to rush the castle. Someone screamed, and Amelia looked up just in time – a chunk of stone, wider than a small bed, was plummeting from the roof of the Notre Dame. It landed with a grinding, smashing crunch on Frollo's carriage, and he looked up at the rooftop where Quasi was grinning at him. "Seize the cathedral!" He growled. "Break down the door if you must!" The soldiers leapt to do his bidding, grabbing a ram from somewhere. There was a crazed, frenzied aura to the air, and Amelia battered the bars, wanting to go out and fight, wanting to run away, far away, and hide someplace. She was torn, bewildered, and euphoric all at once. The steady, splintering _wham!_ of the ram created a soundtrack to the horrendous din, but then Amelia heard a familiar voice break through the hubbub.

"Citizens of Paris!" Phoebus yelled. He was standing atop his cage wielding a spear – somehow, he had broken out, but Amelia wasn't quite sure how. "Judge Frollo has repressed our people, destroyed our homes, and now – _now_! Now he has declared war on Notre Dame herself! _Will we allow it_?"

People surged forward, war cries spilling from their lips, and Amelia cringed at the grating crack of metal against metal. The gypsies who had been pressing so tightly against her lessened, and Amelia realized that the door had been broken open. She rushed forward, tripping as she jumped from the wagon, nearly falling flat on her face if it wasn't for the person in front of her. People were running forward, fighting guards, and there were _rocks_ falling, thick slabs of granite smashing to bits on the cobblestones. Someone thrust a spade into her hand, and Amelia looked at it, confused, for a moment, before she felt a hand clamp down on her arm. A guard was glowering at her, twisting the skin on her arm and trying to force her back into the wagon. Without thinking twice, Amelia gave a little yelp and swung the shovel. It connected with a dull _clang_, and the guard keeled over with a very dumb look on his face. Amelia hugged the spade, her blood lust evaporating, and poked the guard with her toe. He didn't move. "Hello?" She called over the roar around her. "Hello, are you okay?"

He caught sight of her holding a shovel and standing over a guard. Her red hair was tangled and dirty, and her haughty eyes were concerned as she bent over the guard. The _idiot_! She chose the most idiotic times to be worried about people. Clopin darted forward and seized her wrist, dragging her away from the unconscious guard. "What are you _doing_?" He snapped. "Run!"

"Clopin!" Amelia cried. "You're okay!"

He yanked her aside, dragging her at least ten feet to the left, and some bizarre wooden contraption splintered against the ground where they had been standing. Another chunk of rock hit it, and Amelia heard the pained screams of trapped soldiers beneath it. He gave her a little shake, forcing her to look at him. "Run, foolish girl!" He commanded, pushing her towards the edges of the fray. "Run, and do not look back!"

Amelia didn't obey people easily. But the noise and the cries of battle were grating on her ears, and for the first and last time, she did as Clopin told her, racing away from the battle, tears blurring her eyes.

* * *

><p>It was nearly noon when they found her, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, proud, haughty eyes exhausted and damp with tears. Djali was standing there, with his funny goat-smirk on his muzzle, and pointing proudly at Amelia in her spot next to a dust bin. Amelia looked up to see the two small gypsy boys who she had first met when she came here. They were holding her violin case, and she saw that the case was badly dented and one of the brass buckles had been brutally snapped off. Pierre offered her a small, winning smile, and held up the case. "We found your pretty toy, <em>mademoiselle<em>," Pierre said soothingly. "Will you come out and play for us?" Amelia didn't move, but her eyes were fixated on the violin case. "The battle is over, _mademoiselle_, and Frollo is dead. There is nothing to fear."

"I'm not afraid," She said hoarsely, almost in spite of herself. "He told me to leave."

"Our mamas said we had to leave, too," Pierre said, scowling a little. "And we did. But it is over! And La Esmeralda is alive! Come play for us, please."

She crawled out of her little corner, feeling a little ashamed and silly as she picked up her violin. She stroked the smooth, buffed, rosy side of the instrument – miraculously, the violin was undamaged. _This case must be lined with titanium_, Amelia thought dimly as she pulled out her bow. She drew the bow across the strings, playing a smooth, low note, and listened for a minute. Somewhere, there were people singing – singing, in spite of the battle which had raged in the early morning. They were free of the iron grip of Frollo, unshackled from the repressing blows of his laws and commands. What could she play, what song could she think of which would suit this occasion? It took her a moment to remember the chords, and she positioned her fingers daintily over the strings. The song was completely improvisational, mostly high, swooping notes which blended with each other quite nicely. Part of her told her that she ought to be remembering this so she could write it down later, but another part of her didn't quite want to.

And when she finished, she heard the soft noise of gloved applause.

Those beautiful gold-green eyes rose and she saw him, in all of his lean, lithe, dark glory, lounging against the corner of a shop at the end of the alley. His plumed hat was dirty, obviously trampled, and his tunic was singed in more than a few places. He seemed to be avoiding putting any weight on his left side. But those dark, inky eyes were looking at her impassively, the dull gold of his earring winking softly in the sunlight. She stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do or say. Sitting beside the dust bin, she had tried to examine her feelings towards Clopin. Amelia had never been very good at the 'look-into-yourself' thing, and her success was limited. But she realized one thing – Clopin was fiercely passionate to protect his people. But he was a murderer, a thief, a gypsy, and a tramp. He was an entertainer, a trickster, a juggler, a puppeteer. He was a king, a leader, a man. He was _Clopin_. Undeniably, unequivocally, Clopin. And she couldn't fault him for that.

"Are we still friends, _mademoiselle_?" He queried, those dark eyes looking into her lazy gold-green orbs. She gave a defiant toss of her red hair.

"No."

His heart sank.

She pounced on him, then standing on tiptoe and attacking his lips in a kiss. The gesture was unexpected, but not entirely so. His arm settled around her waist, drawing her closer, and he broke the kiss. His voice was a velvety breath in her ear, accented with his Parisian twist and his light teasing. "_Mon chere_, wherever you come from, you do not kiss well. As a matter of fact, you are a terrible kisser. I, Clopin, shall show you how to kiss properly."

She pouted.

He could _never_ resist her when she pouted.

And then he gave her a kiss so toe-curling, heart-pounding, dizzyingly perfect that Amelia thought she would simply melt, right there, in his arms. She was dimly aware that she let her violin clatter to the ground, was blissfully oblivious that Pierre and his friend were staring at the two of them with their mouths open, and had no idea that she had linked her arms around his neck.

In true Disney style, this is where we shall leave them.

* * *

><p>AN: For some bizarre reason, I thought I already finished this story. Then I was looking at my profile and realized it wasn't. Oh well.

Banner for this fiction can be found at http:/nanethblog(dot)wordpress(dot)com Just put periods where the dots are. xD


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